Of House-Elves and Lonely Hearts
by hiddenhibernian
Summary: Ten years after the fall of Voldemort, a cold wind blows through the wizarding world once more. Astoria Malfoy has a debt to settle, and the time has come to make Hermione Granger pay for old sins. Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy finds it means very little to get almost everything he ever wanted – not when he has already lost his heart.
1. Loose Ends

******Warning: Contains references to miscarriage and implied non-con**

**I owe a massive debt of gratitude to ****itsraa**, who has been an amazing alpha, beta and what have you. This fic would have been a lot poorer without her help. Thanks ever so much for the insightful comments, suggestions and musings on the best Galleon to GBP conversion rate. I'm also very grateful to Edhla, who isn't even in the same fandom but still has been very helpful. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own. 

**I'd also like to thank Quasar-Hunter for making the cover art.  
**

******This fic was written for the 2014 DramioneLove Love Fest on LiveJournal**

* * *

**Chapter 1 – Loose Ends**

**-oOo-**

"Open up, Granger! I know you're in there!"

Hermione rolled out of bed in an ungainly heap and managed to scramble onto her feet — eventually. She swayed, head still cloudy with sleep. Yesterday had been a very long day, and judging by the tendrils of morning sun creeping in around the dusty blinds, it was far too early to be getting up.

There was another series of quick bangs on the door, which made the ancient wood shake alarmingly.

"Coming, Mr Saberthwaite!" Hermione fumbled through her coat pockets for her tips from last night, pouring the coins out on her bed. It had been too late to count them up when she returned last night, but she had hoped it would be more. The little pile of coins added up to only five Galleons and three Sickles, which made the total amount she could pay off the rent ninety Galleons even.

Her little room above the junk shop in Diagon Alley was the cheapest accommodation she could find, but it still wasn't that cheap, and she was already two weeks behind. Mr Saberthwaite was accustomed to being paid in small instalments by those of limited means, but even his patience had started to shows signs of wearing thin.

Once she had poured her motley collection of coins into Mr Saberthwaite's eager hands, accompanied by her apologies, Hermione closed the door with a kick and collapsed on her bed. It wasn't as if she had much choice; there wasn't exactly room for a couch, and her only, rather rickety, chair was currently serving as her wardrobe.

Last night, Hannah Abbott had let Hermione do a trial shift as a waitress at the Leaky Cauldron.

It hadn't gone well. Even if some people had thrown her a few extra Sickles because they recognised her from the war – at least some of the wizarding world hadn't been struck by convenient amnesia – she had spilled most of their pints on the way to the tables.

Hannah had asserted herself as the new landlady forcefully enough that Hermione had been spared any jibes from those who didn't appreciate her war record quite as much, but that didn't change the fact that they probably were in the majority. Hannah had always been a little too inclined to assume things would work out fine, only to spot the flaw in her plans later. After last night, she seemed to have realised that Hermione Granger was more likely to send customers away than attract them, for reasons that had little to do with her atrocious waitressing skills.

Hermione didn't expect to be called back unless the entire staff was laid down by Dragon Pox.

She stared at the wall opposite her bed, only a few feet away. In the scruffy-looking photo she had pinned to it, Harry was waving at her, glasses slightly askew and Gryffindor scarf fluttering in the wind.

Next to him sat her parents, unmoving and unchanging, looking just like she remembered them from before the war. They would recognise the face of their own daughter – she was certain they would. A few laughter lines and many more lines of worry hadn't altered her irrevocably. The look in her eyes was more wary than eager these days, but surely she had good reason for that?

Hermione tried to take stock of her situation, as unappealing as it was.

The next step down from Mr Saberthwaite's room in the attic was a bed at the Brockdale Foundation's Shelter for Homeless Wizards. As it was run by Pansy Parkinson's mother, Hermione doubted very much they would take her in. Just a few years ago, the solution to her predicament would have been obvious: she would simply have got a flat in the Muggle world. Apparition and Floo had ensured that generations of half-bloods and Muggle-borns had been strewn across the UK among their unsuspecting Muggle counterparts, happily paying a pittance in rent.

Unfortunately, currently a number of expensive permits and licences from the Ministry were required to connect to the Floo network and place wards on Muggle housing. Hermione couldn't afford as much as a door chime ward, and was therefore relegated to the back rooms of established wizarding areas.

She could always live in the Muggle world without wards, if she had no objection to old enemies calling in the middle of the night. Unforgivables were such ugly housewarming gifts.

Bloody Ron, she thought tiredly. Even now, she couldn't blame him for everything: all of them were at fault, not least Hermione.

* * *

"Daphne saw Hermione Granger serving drinks at the Leaky last night. I thought she was working for the Ministry?"

Astoria and Draco were in their seats waiting for the concert to start. It was the opening night of the Wizarding Assembly's classical music series. The Malfoys had arrived early, since their purpose for being there was to be seen rather than to listen.

"She used to," Draco replied. "Shacklebolt got them to hire her, to stop her turning up at his office every week."

"What happened?" Astoria looked bored with the subject already, but it was still a few minutes before the performance was due to start and Merlin knew they had little else to talk about.

"You know what happened to Shacklebolt?" It was a rhetorical question: the whole wizarding world knew that Kingsley Shacklebolt had been caught with his hand in the till. Draco had his suspicions about the veracity of the story; it was a little too neat for the war hero to be found corrupt so he easily could be disposed, but he'd never been able to find any proof. "Once he was gone, they weren't too keen on listening to Granger anymore. She never knew when to stop, either."

"Oh yes, she was working for house-elves or something, wasn't she?" Astoria looked aghast at the idea.

"Goblins, mermaids, vampires... The uglier, the better." The last bit was unfair; Hermione had never cared much about appearances, but Astoria didn't know that.

"And then she fell on hard times?"

"Apparently the job market for house-elf activists is somewhat limited." The curtain was about to rise and the witch next to them was looking daggers at Draco. The conversation ended, but through the performance of Lyadov's _Baba Yaga_ Draco couldn't stop thinking about Hermione Granger. It had been a long time since she last had crossed his mind.

There was a little more to the story about her fall than what he had been telling Astoria.

In the beginning, Granger had plenty of reflected glory to go around to use as currency for her burning desire to reform the wizarding world. To Draco, jaundiced observer of human nature both by accident of birth and natural inclination, it was obvious that the wizarding world quickly got tired of being grateful. They mostly wanted to forget about the war, not relive it. While the Golden Trio remained tabloid fodder, it became less and less complimentary.

With her influence on the wane after Shacklebolt had been disposed as Minister for Magic, Granger had committed the cardinal sin of attempting to campaign harder for her pet causes rather than changing tack. Draco could have told her that it was as effective as trying to make foreigners understand English by speaking louder and slower.

She had to offer something, even if it was just the prospect of feeling benevolent. The way to ensure more rights for Centaurs was to find out what the ungainly critters could do for the wizards who'd grant them such rights, like donating some of their precious manes for potions ingredients. Banging on about them being entitled to the same consideration as Muggles, like Granger had been doing, was a sure-fire way to ensure people stopped listening.

She had a knack for making enemies, too. Granger had taken to the stand at the Death Eater trials after the war and meticulously provided evidence sufficient to send dozens of Draco's former comrades-in-arms to Azkaban. They had deserved it, no one knew that better than Draco. Unfortunately for Granger, the Rowle, Yaxley and Dolohov families did not share his opinion.

For some reason Rita Skeeter harboured a grudge against her, too. Skeeter never wrote a bad word against Gryffindor's golden girl herself, but Draco knew the inner workings of the _Daily Prophet_ better than its editor did. The anti-Granger editorial line came directly from Skeeter's influence, although she was being very discreet about it.

Granger had slipped from the front pages and invitation lists and slid into obscurity. At the same time, her enemies had been gaining in power: the old families started to claw back the ground they temporarily had lost as Granger's star was waning. For a long time, she had disappeared from Draco's view.

He'd had much else to concern himself with.

As he heard the opening bars of the first piece, Draco felt the sumptuously decorated ceiling descend towards him, consuming all oxygen in the air as it came down to suffocate him in his seat.

He had almost everything anyone could ever want: a beautiful wife, an ancient name, a fortune and a palatial home. People listened when he spoke. The stains on the Malfoy crest had been wiped off since the war, and if Draco had only made the effort he would have had as much clout as his father had at the height of his influence. It was a veritable laundry-list of privilege, but it left him cold.

He wasn't even thirty yet, but he felt like an old man, worn out before his time. There was little to look forward to, except more of the same – but what else could he want from life?

The subject proved sufficiently intriguing to keep him occupied until the interval, when he reverted to his company manners and did what was expected of him. Yet, as he was busy flirting and flattering and gossiping, he continued to mull over it.

Something was missing, but he was damned if he knew what it was.

* * *

The letter arrived a few days after her stint at the Leaky Cauldron. It was delivered by a Long-eared Owl which peered down its aristocratic beak at Hermione when she motioned for it to perch on the back of her chair while she unrolled the letter.

The parchment was stiff and crisply white, indicating that it came from Lovatts, purveyors of the finest wizarding stationery. Hermione hadn't seen their products since Bill and Fleur's wedding, so many years ago. Her most frequent correspondent nowadays was Neville, who grabbed any piece of paper he found handy. Unless he had decided to marry Hannah in the last day or so, this was unlikely to be from him.

Warily, she unrolled the missive. Surely it couldn't be another bill? The cost of whatever she would have bought was less than a single sheet of Lovatt parchment anyway.

_Miss Granger, _

the letter read,

_I have a proposal to our mutual advantage to lay before you. Your presence is requested at Malfoy Manor on Tuesday the 14__th__ of April at ten o'clock to discuss this opportunity further. Kindly indicate your acceptance by return owl. _

_Astoria Malfoy_

The owl unfolded its wings and reared; apparently, it didn't take kindly to Hermione's howl of laughter at its mistress's expense.

Hermione scrambled around for something to write on, and eventually resorted to tearing out the empty front page from her copy of _Jane Eyre. _

_Dear Mrs Malfoy, _

she wrote.

_I don't think so. _

_Hermione Granger_

"There now. Off you go," she encouraged the owl. "You know where Malfoy Manor is, I take it? Just go back there like a good owl, and we'll pretend this never happened."

* * *

A few weeks later, Hermione was sweeping the floor (well, she had her wand trained on the broom doing the actual sweeping) in the freezer room at Florian Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour when Astoria Malfoy, resplendent in mink and dark blue silk, swept in.

It didn't come entirely as a surprise.

Ever since she had dismissed the invitation to Malfoy Manor weeks ago, she had received ever more polite requests to meet the younger Mrs Malfoy, all of which Hermione had returned without a response. As far as she could recall, Astoria hadn't been particularly bright, but even the thickest society madam would get the message sooner or later.

Apparently not. The darling of pure-blood society and the youngest daughter of famously wealthy parents, Astoria probably wasn't used to not getting what she wanted.

Too bad. Hermione was, and she wasn't averse to giving Mrs Malfoy a lesson in how the other half lived.

"My dear Miss Granger," the haughty apparition started, pulling her robes up from the dusty floor with apparent distaste. "I'm very surprised you've been ignoring my letters."

Hermione took in the immaculately coiffed curls, the profusion of diamonds and the carefully painted, dark red lips. She was beautiful, no doubt about it, but with all that money, surely only a troll would look unattractive. There was something graceful about her, though, something hard to pin down which suggested that Astoria would have been very pretty even if her mother hadn't bought up most of Diagon Alley during the first wizarding war when property prices had hit rock bottom.

Hermione had already assessed how much trouble she'd be in if she ended up on the wrong side of Astoria. Not enough to pretend to be pliant; she didn't have much more to lose.

When you're at the bottom, you may as well kick upwards.

"Given that the only time I've spoken to you was when I found you snogging Andreas Vaisey in the library and took five points for it, I won't pretend to understand the sentiment."

Astoria was taken aback, but her face quickly regained its smooth expression. Her robes still weren't touching the floor. Hermione didn't break eye contact, but she couldn't resist waving the broom, which had paused when the fashionably clad obstacle had appeared in its way, so that a few specks of dusts advanced towards Astoria.

"I can assure you this matter purely relates to business. No prior acquaintance is necessary." Glancing down, Astoria discovered that the hems of her robes weren't pristine any more. Her lips pursed, and she daintily shook them out. It didn't work.

"And I can assure you I've no interest in entering into any sort of business relationship with you." Hermione reanimated the broom, and this time, Astoria actually jumped out of the way. "Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"I'll give you two-hundred thousand Galleons if you agree to my proposal." The words came rushing out and Astoria's mouth did a funny little turn, as if she hadn't meant to reveal the bait so soon.

That was one million pounds in Muggle money, and however much Hermione deplored it, it was enough to purchase a hearing even for a Malfoy.

She had a feeling she would live to regret this, even as she conjured a Windsor chair for Astoria to sit on.

* * *

Hermione's accommodation at Malfoy Manor was actually marginally more comfortable than her room at Mr Sabertwaithe's. She even had a chest of drawers here. The battered piece of furniture was insufficient in reassuring her that signing that contract with Astoria Malfoy hadn't been the worst mistake of her life.

And she couldn't even comfort herself with blaming Ron this time. This was all her own fault.

Well, Hermione Granger didn't give up that easily: she would get to work, fulfil the terms of the agreement and, in one year, she'd walk out of here and into the sunset with one million pounds.

It would be enough to buy her a future.

As little as five years ago, Hermione would never have voluntarily agreed to become a glorified house-elf for the Malfoy family. Not even in return for a very large amount of money and the chance of spreading some sedition among the house-elves while she was at it.

But five years ago, the wizarding world had been a different place, and Hermione Granger had been a name that opened doors.

She wondered again how it had all changed so quickly, as she unpacked her slender holdall and put her wand in a drawer. Hermione had refused to give her wand to anyone else, even if she couldn't use it.

Astoria had been very insistent: no magic while she was working. A year without doing magic was perhaps not the worst condition Astoria could have imposed. Better for Hermione to find out if she could live mostly without magic now, rather than after a few months in the Muggle world. If it did cause her to spontaneously self-combust, it couldn't happen in a better place.

Through the narrow window she could see several peacocks strutting across the lawn. Their white feathers were irrefutable proof she was back at Malfoy Manor, and she almost laughed at the improbability of it.

**-oOo-**

* * *

**Lyadov's _Baba Yaga_ is a real piece. She also appears on a Chocolate Frog Card in one of the Harry Potter games, so she was clearly a real witch...**


	2. Below Stairs

**Thanks again to my fantastic betas, itsraa and Edhla. **

* * *

**Chapter 2 **

**Below Stairs**

**-oOo-**

When she was brought down to the kitchens, Hermione was grateful that she only was five foot four in her bare stockings. It was just enough to not bang her head on the ceiling every time she tried to move. Had she been any taller, she would have ended up with multiple concussions after the first day.

It was just as well she fit.

Her contract with Astoria was nigh on unbreakable, so even if she had ended up banging her head every five minutes it would have had to be endured. Nevertheless, she would have felt less uneasy if she'd understood exactly what Astoria was getting from the arrangement.

Five house-elves currently served the Malfoy family: Miffy, Welder, Essie, Rippy and Eddel. Dobby wasn't mentioned. When Astoria summoned them to the hall to introduce Hermione, they received her with wide-eyed wonder. But Hermione got the impression they weren't quite as naïve as they appeared. These were elves who had survived Voldemort's stay with the family, after all.

When Astoria had dismissed them and swept away grandly, the house-elves suddenly looked sharper and more alien. It was obvious then that Hermione was the only human present.

"Hermione can come this way." Miffy, whose skin was was almost purple, unlike any other house-elf Hermione had ever seen, nodded towards a tapestry of Urg the Unclean. The outline of a door appeared in the middle of the horde of charging goblins.

Hermione only just fit under the doorframe.

Below the stairs at Malfoy Manor was a maze of larders and pantries which occasionally opened up into bigger spaces to facilitate food preparation or flower arranging. Hermione was brought through to the kitchens, which were second only to the Hogwarts kitchens in size. The Malfoys must have had human servants at some stage, since the room was cavernous, with the ceiling disappearing among the blackened beams.

Miffy pointed her to a spindly, three-legged chair placed in the middle of the floor. Hermione sat down with some trepidation, but it seemed to be sturdy enough. It brought her down to the house-elves' eye level, and she found herself under scrutiny by five sets of bulbous eyes.

This was beginning to look like an interrogation.

"There has been no human servants in these halls for three hundred years," the elf she thought was Eddel announced. He had three tufts of grey hair sprouting from a bald head, and had a distinct air of being in charge. The elves were all dressed in antimacassars, as far as Hermione could make out. The state of the provisional garments varied from tattered and yellow to crisp white, as if they had been crocheted yesterday. The last time Hermione had seen an antimacassar had been at Ron's Auntie Muriel's.

Maybe Astoria had got tired of the pillowcases from Dobby's time.

"I understand it's—that me coming here might complicate things for you," Hermione rushed to say. "I just want to say that I promise I'll pull my weight and not make life more difficult for you."

Five sets of doleful eyes contradicted her, but the elves remained silent.

"I mean, I can't aspire to match what a house-elf can do, but I promise I'll try my best..." She didn't quite know what to tell them.

But, miraculously, that turned out to be exactly the right thing to say. There was a general sense of guards being let down in the air.

Rippy rushed to assure her: "No one is expecting that of Hermione, no one is. If Miss—if Hermione do her best and serve the family, that's good enough for Rippy."

"Yes. Yes, I will," Hermione reassured the elf, wondering why she suddenly felt anxious about living up to the house-elves' expectations. Down here, it was easy to forget whose house she was in.

That night, she dreamt of chains coiled around her throat strangling her slowly, while Dobby tried to prise them off her. She woke up in a sweaty mess, heart racing, but couldn't remember anything other than the feeling of being chained. She fell asleep with the niggling feeling of being heavier than usual, but surely that was nonsense...

* * *

Hermione wasn't completely stupid.

Before agreeing to Astoria's proposal, she had ferreted out as much information as she could lay her hands on about the younger woman. It wasn't easy; most of her friends were Gryffindors and Slytherins were notoriously tight-lipped. Short of trawling the _Daily Prophet's _gossip pages, her usual avenues of research were closed, and there was no Slytherin common room to Polyjuice herself into.

It wasn't until she complained to Luna that she finally got somewhere. Luna listened patiently and then arranged for Hermione to speak to Tracey Davis, who had been in Slytherin. Tracey had stayed behind at Hogwarts to fight against Voldemort, confounding those who believed house allegiance was everything.

Tracey was reluctant to meet Hermione, but once she turned up at the arranged Muggle pub she delivered her opinion on the Greengrass sisters without hesitation. It had been the same at the Battle of Hogwarts; once she had broken ranks with the Slytherins who were being evacuated, she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the fight. Tracey did nothing by halves.

"Astoria isn't exactly stupid, but the one you have to watch out for is Daphne. She's quiet enough, but she's sharp." Tracey's brown eyes raked over Hermione, and it felt like they saw much more than Hermione cared to reveal. "I don't know what you're up to and I don't want to know, but beware. Usually Astoria is fine, but if you're in her bad books, she won't forget it."

"How do you mean?"

"I didn't return a quill of hers once. Forgot all about it until I woke up with a toad in my bed – turned out it was her favourite quill from her godmother," Tracey raised her eyes to high heaven. "She thought I'd kept it on purpose."

Hermione looked at the stubborn cast of Tracey's chin and considered the matter-of-fact way she stated her opinions. Astoria was tougher than she had thought if she'd been willing to cross Tracey.

"What else can you tell me? Anything at all?"

They'd fought on the same side, and that still seemed to count for something with Tracey.

"She's close to Daphne. They always stuck together at Hogwarts, not like some sisters I'd know. Astoria could be a bit wild – Daphne tried to reign her in, but usually Astoria didn't listen to her until it was too late. Seems to have settled down now, though."

Tracey sniffed the glass of questionable wine the barman had plonked down in front of her and made a face at the whiff of sulphur before resuming her character assassination.

"Well, she did get married, I suppose," Hermione said. Not that it had slowed Harry and Ginny down much.

"Astoria must have something over Draco, the way she's carrying on. It must be the money – the Greengrasses think everything can be bought." Tracey seemed to consider the state of their world for a moment. "I suppose they're right."

"Not quite everything," Hermione commented dryly, thinking of their poor wartime record, and Tracey's keen eyes met hers again.

"No, not quite everything," she agreed. "But these days it's as near as."

* * *

There were surprisingly few people Hermione had to tell that she was going to disappear for a year.

She went to see Neville, and patiently bore with him when he explained what a terrible idea this was. She knew that, but she didn't exactly have a plethora of other options to choose from. Even if she went back to sleeping on his couch, like she had for most of last October, it didn't solve anything in the long run. Her friends could put her up in the short term, but she refused to rely on their generosity forever.

It had been a bitter pill to swallow that all her ambitions had come to nothing. Hoping that her luck would change, Hermione had stuck it out, but over the last year it had become increasingly clear that earning a living in the wizarding world, never mind reforming it, was getting harder and harder.

Astoria's offer gave her a way out, and she supposed she should be grateful. If only she had known for sure what was in it for Astoria... The only explanation Hermione could come up with was vanity; no one else had the former Golden Girl of Gryffindor working for them. Pure-blood society was mad and daft enough to consider that a mark of distinction, and Astoria had made a name for herself by having what no one else had.

Saying goodbye to Luna was easy. She had known what Hermione was planning to do from the start, and simply bid her a serene farewell before going hunting for Snorkacks. It didn't seem to cross Luna's mind that they may never see each other again.

More casual acquaintances like Hermione's landlord were simply told that she was moving abroad. Hermione suspected that everyone would be finding out what she was doing in the _Daily Prophet_ in any case, if her guess about Astoria was correct.

In a feeble attempt at self-preservation, Hermione told Percy Weasley what she was going to do, too. While Hermione wasn't flavour of the month at The Burrow, she knew they would come through for her if she really needed help. The Weasleys had been her family in the wizarding world for as long as she could remember, and she refused to believe that another breakup with Ron had changed that.

Losing her parents had made the Weasleys even more important to Hermione; being fretted over by Molly had made her feel like she still had a mother.

After the war was over, Hermione had only waited for the dust from the battle to settle over Hogwarts and for the long, sorry list of funerals to conclude before she caught a Portkey to Australia.

The Wilkins were nowhere to be found: not in the directory of accredited dentists maintained by the Australian Dental Association, nor in the pile of nationwide phone directories they found in a local library in Perth, nor anywhere else Hermione could think of to look.

It was as if they had never existed.

There was no trace of the Grangers, either. The trail disappeared at the comfortable Victorian redbrick Hermione had grown up in. It was now home to a gaggle of Smiths, who looked askance at Hermione when she wouldn't stop showing up, trying to find a trace of whatever magic had carried her parents away.

She must have gone over her memory hundreds of times in the Pensieve at the Department of Mysteries, watching herself Obliviating her parents over and over again. Knowing their new names should have been enough to find them again unless Hermione had modified her own memories, adding an extra layer of protection in the depressingly likely event she was apprehended and tortured.

In the middle of the grim panic of packing for the Horcrux hunt, she had been determined that her parents wouldn't come to any harm from her world.

It was possible she'd decided hiding them wasn't enough, and created a double-bluff. Slytherins didn't have a monopoly on craftiness.

There was no suggestion of Death Eaters going after her parents in any of the trials after the war, nor any trace of magic in her old neighbourhood. For want of anything more tangible, Hermione clung to the possibility of them being alive and waiting for her somewhere.

For years, she had been searching for the key to unlock her memories. Newspaper advertisements in the personal section of _The Guardian_ (the Grangers always read the Lonely Hearts section) or listing her name in the London phonebook had yielded no results, nor did any of the Muggle 'security consultants' she hired to search for them.

No one managed to find as much as a hair of her parents, and slowly Hermione's frantic search turned into a dogged holiday pastime. Lately, with no funds to hire any more private eyes to tell her what she already knew, she mostly flicked through the few photos she had brought with her on the run.

As a last-ditch effort she had tried bumping into them by chance, hoping that simply spending more time in the Muggle world would be enough. None of her Apparitions to random British towns had brought any closer to finding them.

Maybe living in the Muggle world full time would change her luck.

Harry and Ginny were out there too, of still had plenty of enemies, not least from working as an Auror, and he had been very careful not to leave any trace of his whereabouts. As long as they were careful not to use magic in front of Muggles, the Ministry and the wizarding world had no way of finding them.

Neither had Hermione; she only knew they were somewhere in Britain. She didn't even know if Ginny had been pregnant with a boy or a girl when they'd left.

Harry and Ginny had insisted on there being some way to contact them in the event of unnamed disasters, and Hermione had agreed a code to be communicated in newspaper advertisements with them before they left. It could have worked for her parents, after all.

Hermione was determined not to break their cover until she was safely out of the wizarding world and could join them. Becoming a Muggle was a very expensive business, and not even Harry's coffers were unlimited.

In previous centuries, a wand would have sufficed to create a new Muggle identity, and no one would have been the wiser. In 21st century Britain, however, computerised records and the relentless drive to document everything conspired to relegate anyone not in the system to a half-life of off-the-books jobs and temporary accommodation. Harry and Hermione knew enough about the modern Muggle world to realise that a proper identity with a National Insurance number and school records was worth the exorbitant price.

Mundungus Fletcher had already made a fortune brokering the fake identities now held by the Potters, and Hermione would be bringing enough business his way without forcing the Potters to go through it again.

She could only hope she would see her friends soon again.


	3. The Ghost of Christmas Past

**As always, I'm very grateful for the help of my betas, itsraa and Edhla. Any remaining mistakes are my own - and if you spot any, please point them out! **

* * *

**Chapter 3 **

**The Ghost of Christmas Past**

**-oOo-**

It was only a few months into her year-long sentence, but Hermione was already ground down by the relentless repetition of mindless tasks.

Busy from dawn to midnight, and she never had time to _think_. As she polished the porcelain sink in the kitchen for the thousandth time, ensuring that the already spotless surface shone so that even Miffy wouldn't crinkle her nose at it, she wondered how the house-elves could stand it.

There was a reason Hermione's mother had been on the barricades at Oxford in the Sixties, demanding equal rights and pay. The Granger women weren't naturally inclined towards full-time domesticity. For Hermione, being in charge of logistics during their year on the run had been quite enough. Knowing the boys, they would have succumbed without food during their second week in the tent without Hermione's research. Not to mention the smell.

That had been acceptable: wartime was different and needs must. This rotten peace, however, was making her dream of innumerable rows of Regency mahogany chairs to be dusted at night.

Close on that train of thought followed a niggling feeling that there was something she was forgetting about, something important. Something from before…

It hovered somewhere out of reach and she chalked it down to exhaustion – she had never realised just how big Malfoy Manor was, not until she had to mop the floors.

"Does it never get boring?" Hermione had the temerity to ask Eddel one day as she was arranging the curtains in the smoking room under his supervision. Being only three feet tall did limit the house-elf somewhat, but Hermione was still flabbergasted that he deemed her worthy of doing something the Family might actually notice.

Now she was even thinking like a house-elf: this had to be stopped.

"What is boring, Hermione?" His reedy voice was swallowed by the plush purple curtains and cosily stuffed armchairs. The smokers had all the luck in the Malfoy household; the spindly chairs in the pink drawing room looked like you'd injure yourself if you sat on them.

"This: repeating chores, over and over again. Don't you ever wish there would be something different, every day?"

"Different, Hermione says? Is she not happy being allowed up here?" Eddel looked disappointed, and she had to fight the impulse to say, _of course she was_, _that she also considered the chance to arrange the Malfoy drapes a great privilege._ In Hermione's experience, irony didn't go down well with house-elves.

"Don't you ever find it boring? Even with magic, it's doing the same thing all the time," she persevered.

He actually seemed to consider it.

"No."

"Oh, forget it," Hermione mumbled as she tried to make the folds softer, however one achieved that.

"It doesn't get boring because without Eddel, the Family"—she could hear the capital F clearly—"would be hungry and cold."

"And suffer inferior curtain folds," she offered under her breath.

"Eddel is happy to serve because he is needed. Matters not if Eddel has to clean the floor in the Great Hall every day because Master Draco doesn't remember to wipe his feet – Eddel is _necessary_."

"I see," Hermione said, and, somehow, she started to perceive what kept the house-elves happy. When she thought about it, keeping someone clothed and fed and warm probably was a worthy use of one's time. Especially when compared to, say, working with direct marketing or running a hedge fund.

It was just a pity that it was the Malfoys' comfort she was contributing to.

* * *

It had been inevitable ever since she agreed to Astoria's proposal.

Nevertheless, Hermione's heart jolted unpleasantly when she came across the master of the house on her way to the greenhouses a few weeks after her arrival. Draco looked to the manor born, every inch the pure-blooded gentleman from his immaculate hair to the shining riding-boots scattering pebbles in the air with every step.

When he saw her, he stopped abruptly.

"Granger? What are you doing here?"

"Didn't your wife tell you?" Hermione retorted, despite herself

"Apparently not. She only said–" Draco cut himself off, and though she was dying to know what exactly Astoria had said, Hermione wouldn't—_couldn't_—ask him to elaborate.

"So you're here now, then." Such a statement would have been inane even for Ron, but coming from Malfoy's lips, it was like hearing a dragon miaow. He shifted his weight from one polished boot to the other.

Hermione couldn't stop herself: "Of all possible reactions, that's the last thing I would have expected from you. What happened, cat got your tongue?"

The corner of his lips hiked upwards slightly, and Draco suddenly looked a lot more like he used to.

"This isn't exactly what I expected from you either. Did the House-Elf Liberation Front finally shut up shop, then? Or should I be on the look-out for a rebellion?"

Hermione opened her mouth for a retort, and then everything went black.

* * *

"Granger? Hermione?" Draco's voice had a slight tinge of panic to it. She opened her eyes to an expression of uncharacteristic relief on his face. "Was is something I said?" he asked, half in jest. Hermione tried to recall what he'd been saying before she collapsed, but couldn't remember.

"Probably. Do you normally have this effect on people?"

"It's usually the shock of realising my good looks come with a first-rate intellect. People seldom expect that."

"You haven't changed much," Hermione told him, as he helped her up from the ground on to slightly wobbly legs. "How long was I out for?" It was only then she noticed that Welder had joined them; he must have started to wonder what kept her.

"Please take Miss Hermione to Miffy to be looked after," Draco said as he removed the dust off her clothes with his wand. "Miffy is pretty handy with Healing spells," he told Hermione.

On Draco's suggestion, Welder brought Hermione to her bedroom before Disapparating in search of Miffy and her box of Healing supplies.

Lying on the bed waiting for the house-elf to appear, Hermione absently looked out the window. Down on the lawn, she could see Draco going wherever he'd been heading before he ran into her. For a second, he looked like an old man, a slight stoop to his shoulders and hair silver in the sunlight. There was no trace of his old cockiness in his gait.

Hermione wondered what ailed the Golden Boy of the post-war world, before remembering: Astoria had happened.

After the war, the Malfoys had got off lightly thanks to Harry. This had not translate into any warmer feelings between Draco and the rest of them. If Hermione hadn't started running into Draco at the Ministry, they could have spent the rest of their life pretending they didn't know each other, apart from the odd pointed comment.

However, at the Ministry, Draco couldn't dismiss Hermione with a sneer. Not while serving an assistant at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. The permanent staff at the DRCMC were only too pleased to pawn off the irritating Hermione Granger and her incessant questions about house-elves and Centaur rights to the greenhorn, and Draco was bound by his probation to do whatever was assigned to him.

The indignity of treating Hermione Granger as a human being was suddenly the lesser evil when compared to the spectre of Azkaban, and Draco had finally started addressing her civilly.

Civilly was perhaps a bit much; he spared his withering remarks for the issues she was campaigning for, rather than her parentage. Under the circumstances, Hermione had chalked it up as a win, and did her best to be extra cheerful whenever she encountered him.

When the department was prompted by Minister Shacklebolt to attempt to contain the indefatigable Hermione Granger by hiring her, Hermione set out to prove that she could be at least as annoying from the inside. Suddenly, she was encountering Malfoy several times a day – anywhere from the lifts in the morning to the tea urn.

All the other employees at the DRCMC addressed each other by first name, and even Hermione had to admit it didn't sound very professional to keep calling him Ferret Boy in meetings. The first time she called him Draco instead of Malfoy, he recoiled visibly, which of course made it much more fun.

* * *

"Draco." Hermione brushed the snowflakes off the brim of her very Muggle duffel coat. It was the third winter after Voldemort's defeat, and London was experiencing an unusual bout of snow, just in time for Christmas.

"Hermione. How spiffing to run into you here." He bundled up his snow-free dark velvet robes. They were waiting in front of the lifts in the Atrium at the Ministry. The queue was quite long this morning, and Hermione wished she'd had her morning cuppa at home. This would take them forever.

"You decided not to brave the great outdoors this morning, I see. Very wise – with that delicate constitution of yours I wouldn't take any chances either," she told Draco, trying to sound pitying while sneering. Her mouth felt like it was doing something funny; she just hoped she wasn't looking constipated.

"I, unlike you, usually recall that I'm a wizard before leaving the house, so I Apparated straight into the Ministry."

"Some of us like a breath of fresh air now and then."

"Don't despair: one of these days you'll have climbed high enough up the greasy pole to merit an actual window. Potter already has one, doesn't he?"

"He did save the wizarding world, you know."

"Oh, I forgot – no one ever mentions that, so it slipped my mind completely."

"It's not exactly front page news anymore, in fairness," Hermione admitted. Harry had managed to stay off the society pages for months now, too, which suited him just fine. It was rather annoying to always be the Boy-Who-Lived when you were twenty and trying to live a normal life.

"A regular shrinking violet he is, our Boy Wonder."

"You should definitely call him that to his face, he'd love that. In fact, he'll be at the Auror Christmas party tonight."

"What about you — never mind."

Hermione was just about to ask what he'd been about to say when he produced a sad-looking, wrinkly cube an inch or so wide.

"Draco! I've asked you again and again not to bloody shrink my books!"

A simple flick with her wand restored the book to its normal size, but there was little to be done about the wrinkles lining the cover. At least Draco had the good grace to look chagrined, though she knew from prior experience that holding out for an apology would be useless. Instead, an immaculate copy of a much nicer edition of the same book would be delivered to her within a week, without a sender.

In this case, she rather expected Draco to be stumped; there couldn't be too many leather-bound versions of Kazuo Ishiguro's _Never Let Me Go_ knocking around. He might have to Transfigure it himself for once.

Ever since she had discovered that Milton, Dickens and Hemingway and many other Muggle writers were a closed book to Draco, Hermione had been plying him with books he simply had to read. It didn't bother her that Ron believed that John Donne played Quidditch for the Montrose Magpies, but Draco actually liked literature. Hermione was constitutionally incapable of letting him remain ignorant, and so their unlikely book club of two had started.

When Draco couldn't understand why Elizabeth Bennett didn't just hex Miss Bingley to next Sunday, she realised that some additional explanations about the Muggle way of life also were in order. As she recently had started him on more contemporary writers, these necessarily became more and more elaborate. Although she never mentioned it to Draco, having tried and failed to educate Arthur Weasley on complex concepts like television and general elections was proving invaluable practice for explaining the Tube to someone who never had set foot on an escalator.

"Well, what did you think anyway?" She never bothered to hide her curiosity, and thankfully Draco always played along.

"Do you want me to jump out of my non-existent window? That was the most depressing thing I've read since the whole 'better serve in heaven' fiasco." They had advanced to the actual lifts by now, and had to squeeze closer to the office workers around them.

Draco paid them no mind as he struck an affected pose, gazing out over the teeming morning crowd of bureaucrats with a nobly suffering face: "I'm at this beach and my whole life is a disaster. What'll I do? Oh, I know – I'll get into my car and drive away, that's what."

"It's not a beach! It's just fields that remind her of a beach," Hermione pointed out. She got an affronted eyebrow for her trouble. "Okay, it's sad, but it's beautiful too."

"Never had you, of all people, pegged for a defeatist."

"What would you have her do? She's only got one kidney, she can hardly mount an armed rebellion!" They shuffled into the lift among puzzled looks.

"It's a book, Gibbons. Don't get your knickers in a twist," Draco told a balding wizard who'd been eavesdropping rather closely, and they could continue their discussion in peace.

"Maybe try for something that won't make me lose the will to live the next time," Draco said as they reached their department then and went to their respective offices (Draco's being a glorified storage cabinet while Hermione's was considerably more comfortable, a reflection of their respective positions in the Ministry hierarchy).

Hermione tried very hard to suppress the realisation that bandying words with Draco was the most fun she could have with all her clothes on. Unfortunately, that only got her wondering why she would think about taking her clothes off in connection with _Malfoy_ of all people.

She spent the rest of the morning in a haze, trying to get some work done while wondering what was wrong with her.

She didn't have time for this. The Department was extremely busy as the Christmas holidays were coming up. Pixies and fairies were in high demand for the season, and the negotiations with the Centaurs over new boundaries in the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts were finally getting somewhere. The Centaurs, having decided that 'a darkness is falling over Britain', finally decided to compromise on the pastures issue.

By the time she remembered that she'd forgotten about lunch, it was time for dinner. Hermione was gulping down a sandwich in between pages of an ancient book of Centaur lore and had forgotten all about Malfoy, or anyone else born in the twentieth century.

"Hermione!" someone shouted very close to her ear, and she swung around with the tip of her wand pointed at the intruder's throat.

"Oh, it's you." She lowered her wand and tried to get her heart to beat normally again.

"As one of your best, not to mention oldest, friends I'd take offence at that," Ron grinned.

"If you weren't such an upstanding bloke," Hermione filled in for him, finding a small smile for him in return. "What are you doing down here, anyway? Looking for a house-elf to iron your robes? I told you we don't have any 'spare ones knocking around' last week."

Harry and Ron were sharing a flat, and the resulting mess had made even Mrs Weasley announce she refused to have anything to do with it. Apparently, Kreacher couldn't iron Ron's robes to his newly acquired high standards.

"I ironed those myself, I'll have you know," he announced with wounded pride and Hermione decided not to mention the little scorch-mark at the bottom of his sleeve. "I'm here to pick you up for the party!"

Hermione finally remembered that she'd sworn to attend the Aurors' Christmas party this year. Harry, happily engaged to Ginny, was hell-bent on finding her someone to snog under the mistletoe. Hermione wasn't opposed to the idea as such, but she wasn't interested enough to actually go somewhere where she would encounter young, single wizards. It was so much effort to get dressed up and organise something, and she had much more interesting things to be doing...

Harry was fully capable of dragging her to the party kicking and screaming, however, so she slammed her book shut with chagrin.

If she was a little excited, too, she was careful not to show it to Ron. It had only been six months since they had broken up for the second time, and the idea of either of them going out with other people still sat a little awkwardly between them.

"I guess Apparating home first to make sure I look presentable isn't in Mr Potter's instructions?"

Ron looked her over. "I think it is, or you're never going to pull anyone."

"Always the diplomat, Ron. See you in a bit, so."

If even _he_ noticed, it must be bad. She was obviously fooling herself thinking that Ron wasn't entirely over their break-up if he was so matter-of-fact about the mission of the evening.

* * *

Sans spiderwebs in her hair and with all the dust cleaned off her robes, Hermione walked into a wall of noise in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement offices.

"So I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him in—" Bletchley was apparently telling innocent bystanders his war stories, and Hermione quickly slipped past him. If you'd heard one, you had heard them all.

"Fancy meeting you here—" Some unknown blond wizard appeared to be addressing her, but as Hermione turned around he was speaking to the pretty witch behind her. She pushed on through the crowd, looking for her friends and a drink. Either would do.

"Hermione Granger, as I live and breathe!" A curly-haired wizard she couldn't recall ever seeing before greeted her with a wide smile and open arms. She neatly sidestepped him, and his grin faded a little.

It disappeared completely when she asked: "Do we know each other?"

"Well, obviously I know who you are—" he stammered, the smile having disappeared completely by now.

"I'm afraid I can't say the same." It wasn't until after he'd stumbled off that Hermione remembered that tonight was supposed to be about meeting people.

Well, better luck the next time. She resolved to be nicer to the next guy, as long as he wasn't obviously looking to hook up with a war hero to .

Unfortunately, the next wizard who approached her turned out to be Thaddeus Royston. Hermione didn't know much about him other than that his desk was two down from Harry's. This happy state wasn't to continue, as Thaddeus proceeded to tell her at length about his likes and dislikes, his favourite Quidditch team, and what had really happened his last night at Hogwarts (apparently, the story about the Murtlap wasn't true).

By the time Hermione's gestures in the direction of the bar had become so urgent Thaddeus had no option but to release her, she knew enough about him to write a small brochure to warn off other women.

Maybe this would work better if she picked someone, rather than the other way around. Hermione stood tip-toe in the crowd, scanning the room for someone interesting-looking.

"You have obviously decided to embrace the fact that you're a witch. I can but hope my example played a part in this Damascene conversion," someone said in her ear, and she turned around to get a good eyeful of six-foot vintage Malfoy elegance.

They might have been complete bastards, but Malfoy men sure knew how to dress.

"I, what?" Hermione tried to raise her left eyebrow in the same supercilious way that Draco did, but it felt like she only managed an undignified wriggle.

"You've actually managed to make your hair look decent, which clearly required some magic. Even though you seem to have got your inspiration from Loony Lovegood," he informed her.

Perhaps the mistletoe had been a mistake.

"Was that supposed to be a compliment? No surprise you're still single."

"I thought you didn't like exaggerated compliments."

She had told Draco that, just after she'd sent Adrian Pucey packing last month. Hermione knew she'd never be a raving beauty, and she didn't particularly care, but Adrian hadn't seemed to understand that describing her eyes as 'bottomless pools of golden-brown treacle' was far more likely to make her laugh than make her fall for him.

"There's over-the-top compliments, and there's implying I usually look like something the cat dragged in."

"I like the way you look. Even when you forget that you've already got a quill behind your ear, and stick another one in." For once, Draco's eyes had lost their guarded look and he looked completely honest. Hermione had no idea what to say to him.

It suddenly occurred to her that to an oblivious observer they would look just like a couple on the cusp of falling in love, with eyes only for each other. If you removed all the history and scars and insults they had hurled at each other over the years, they weren't so very different from—

She should say something, Hermione decided hurriedly. Now.

"I'd—have you had a drink yet?"

Draco wordlessly saluted her with the glass of Firewhiskey in his hand, and she fumbled around for something else to say. Nothing sprung to mind. Draco was looking at her intently, and she could feel heat creeping up her cheeks.

Hermione was jolted out of her train of thought as twenty stone of inebriated Auror crashed into her; Swinford was far too drunk to pay attention to trifling things like other people when navigating his way across the floor.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" Williamson screeched, and suddenly wands were drawn on both sides.

The departed Mad-Eye Moody may have been the worst offender, but Aurors were notoriously prone to overreacting. The resulting altercation took the guts of half an hour to clear up. Hermione had long since lost Draco in the melee when she finally laid hands on a drink.

Some people may have found it surprising to encounter Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, at the Aurors' Christmas party. Somehow, Draco had translated his Slytherin cunning into an ability to wrangle invitations to all the good Ministry staff parties; there were even rumours he had turned up to the Department of Mysteries' staff pick-nick.

Hermione couldn't quite figure out how he did it.

Yes, he still had quite a lot of money and connections, but not nearly as much as his father used to. Perhaps it was Malfoy the younger's surprising ability to appear quite charming when he wanted to, coupled with everyone wanting to show they'd moved on since the war. What better way than to invite the least objectionable former Death Eater, the one who had been cleared by Harry Potter himself?

Along with her glass of rather vile red wine, Hermione had located Harry and Ginny.

"Looking good, Hermione!" Harry shouted over the din.

"Didn't get me anywhere, did it?" she hollered back; it was now near midnight and Hermione hadn't found anyone who merited even the effort of batting her eyelashes at. She was beginning to regret giving in to Harry; she could have got through the first three volumes of _Goblin Queen: A Memoir _by now—

Looking over Harry's shoulder, she almost dropped her glass. Vaguely aware of her mouth hanging open and Ginny mumbling something in her ear, Hermione simply observed Ron getting very close and personal with Verity Duncan, of the Ludicrous Patents Office.

Verity had long, perfectly smooth black hair and always wore red lipstick. By all accounts, Verity was rather nice. According to Percy Weasley, whose judgement had improved significantly post-war, she was quite intelligent, too.

Hermione knew she should have been delighted Ron had moved on so quickly. It was over; they were done, and it shouldn't matter who he was kissing.

Suddenly, she couldn't bear watching it any longer. Ignoring Ginny's increasingly urgent whispers, Hermione swung around and pushed her way through the crowd, heading out into the cool, dark foyer outside the Aurory's offices. It was business as usual here, or as much business as would take place on a Saturday night just before Christmas.

Hermione tried to get her breathing back to normal. After a few seconds, she seemed to have got the hang of it again, and, with the influx of fresh oxygen, a litany of thoughts clamoured for her attention. Why did she even care who Ron was snogging? How long had Ron and Verity been—

"Finally. If it wasn't so preposterous, I would have thought you were avoiding me, Granger."

Hermione was suddenly very grateful for the dim lighting in the corridor.

"You wish, Draco. That would suggest that I attach far too much importance to your whereabouts." She was relieved to sound as breezy and nonchalant as she usually did when they exchanged barbs.

"Wonders do occur. You surprise me, though."

"If you really thought I'd be combing the place for you, you're much dimmer than I thought," she told him, while wondering what Ron was doing now. Still the same, probably...

"I expected you to wonder why I was looking for you, rather." Draco's words snapped Hermione back to the present and suddenly the walls, decorated in bureaucratic beige, seemed much closer than they had been a moment ago. Hermione thought she could even smell his breath – there was nowhere else the sudden whiff of mint could be coming from. Again, his eyes held her transfixed: this time the paper-thin lines around them seemed to hold some tension, and his pupils seemed unnaturally large in the faint light.

"Granger—Hermione…would you like to—" he started, and if she hadn't known better, she would have thought Draco Malfoy was nervous.

"There you are!" With several bangs and limbs flying everywhere, Ron burst out of the official entrance to the Aurory and happened upon them. He'd never mastered the art of going anywhere quietly. "Hermione, I've got to talk to you!"

"Last thing I saw you were busy snogging the head off Verity Duncan!" she retorted, nettled. What was so important that it couldn't wait just a few minutes? That was Ron all over, though.

"That's just it: I saw you walking out and realised what a fool I've been—"

Hermione wasn't sure she was hearing him right. It was so like Ron just to throw it out like that, He couldn't—no, she wouldn't—

Suddenly, she realised that she was smiling. All she had eyes for was Ron: her Ron. He could kiss as many Veritys as he bloody well liked, but in all the ways that mattered, he'd always belong to Hermione.

"Hey, what's Malfoy doing here?" Ron seemed to have realised they had an audience.

"It appears I was here on a fool's errand." Draco sounded eerily like his father had in his glory days, his clipped tones very different to the earnest hesitation from before. "Hermione, I wish you a happy evening. I won't trespass on your time any further. Weasley," He nodded curtly, and suddenly Ron and Hermione were alone.

"What did he want?" Ron asked again, and Hermione realised she didn't much care. No doubt he'd tell her on Monday. Ron's realisations were much more interesting.

After that night, Malfoy seemed to pull back imperceptibly, not just from Hermione but from her corner of the wizarding world in general.

He wasn't seen at any more Ministry parties, and rather than staying on at the DRCMC when his probation was up, he handed in his notice. Hermione was surprised; contrary to all expectations, Draco had seemed to genuinely enjoy having a real job. Suddenly, he seemed to be determined to carve back his place in wizarding society instead.

She didn't have much time to worry about Malfoy: finding a way of making things work with Ron again took most of her energies. Negotiating a laborious set of truces (Hermione promised not to nag about grammar in exchange for a ban on disparaging references to S.P.E.W; Ron agreed not to do magic around Hermione's telly as long as she banned Mr Weasley from taking any of her Muggle stuff home to The Burrow), they patched things up for a third time.

It wasn't only in the Muggle world that three was considered a magic number. This time, Hermione really thought it could work out.

The night of the Aurors' Christmas party seemed to be the high point of her post-war world. Her career was going as well as everyone always had expected, all her friends were happy, and both she and Ron seemed to finally have realised that they were better together than apart, and willing to do what it took to make it work.

For a brief moment, everything seemed possible.

It didn't last long. After only a few months, Hermione resigned from the Ministry in disgust at their lip service to creature rights. It was a calculated risk. She was betting that they would have to take her back and give in to some of her demands, or risk a public backlash.

Unfortunately, three days turned out to be a very long time in politics.

That same week, Kingsley Shacklebolt was forced to resign. He vehemently protested his innocence, but the flurry of stories about extramarital affairs and improper awarding of contracts to friends and associates had gained too much traction. Anyone Kingsley had brought in with him into the Ministry was slightly tarred with the same brush.

It was easy for Hermione's foes at the DRCMC to claim her resignation as a victory: they alone had spotted something amiss with Minister Shacklebolt's protégé.

Far from being begged to come back, Hermione was blacklisted from Ministry employment. In the beginning she didn't care. The old guard was more powerful than she had thought and reform from the inside seemed an impossible proposition.

Several years later, when everything Hermione had done in the war seemed to have been forgotten and it was impossible to even get anyone to listen to the possibility of giving rights to Centaurs and house-elves, being cut off from the biggest employer in the wizarding world turned out to be a more effective sanction than she had ever imagined.

Laboriously, the old elite reclaimed their position at the top of wizarding society and blood slowly started to matter again. Or maybe it always had, and they had just pretended it didn't for a few years to make the rest of the wizarding world believe they had changed.

Hermione couldn't quite pinpoint when Draco Malfoy's star had risen above hers again; she only realised when the reversal of their fortunes was complete.

It hardly mattered, as they didn't run in the same circles anyway, but it struck her as a weathercock to the winds in the wizarding world. When Draco had reclaimed the exalted status he had been born to, it was a bad time to be a Muggle-born.

The sunny dawn of the new world after the war had been swept in the fog of old prejudices again, and this time Hermione wasn't prepared to fight for it to dispel.

What was the point, if things never really changed anyway?


	4. Plus Ça Change

**Chapter 4 **

**Plus Ça Change**

**-oOo-**

Draco usually steered clear of whatever Astoria was up to; it seldom amounted to anything interesting anyway. Granger's sudden appearance was different.

He was quite familiar with being forced to choose from a small number of equally bad options, and didn't find it so very hard to understand how Hermione had ended up as a glorified house-elf. It was shocking, yes, but he could see the logic that had brought her under his roof.

What Draco couldn't get his head around was what Astoria was getting out of the arrangement. To the best of his knowledge, it wasn't like her to revel in the casual humiliation of relative strangers. She could be vindictive when someone had wronged her (usually a trait to be applauded in a Malfoy), but she had never shown any irrational hatred of Gryffindors in general or Hermione in particular before.

There must be something else behind it.

Draco was at a loss as to why it perturbed him so deeply. Ever since he had tried and failed to work out Astoria's motivations, a strange lump seemed to have taken up residence in his throat.

Having Hermione at the Manor was... pleasant. It was probably a character flaw that Draco jumped on any excuse to talk to the only person in the house who actually seemed to like him, but there it was. He only wished she could have been there under different circumstances.

Letting on to his wife that he regarded Hermione as anything other than hired help would be very stupid, so that avenue of inquiry was closed. There was always Daphne, who got on quite well with her brother-in-law and might be persuaded to tell him what was going on, but that was risky. If Astoria had involved her sister, she'd find out that Draco had been asking.

It was disconcerting to realise that he didn't know what was going on in the house he was supposed to be the master of. No doubt his father would have seized the opportunity to tell him this was the inevitable consequence of neglecting his responsibilities.

There was always the option of paying Hermione off from his own funds, so she could leave immediately. Draco wasn't yet privy to the details of her contract, but he was fairly sure it wouldn't be that easy. It might be fatal to show his hand to Astoria too early, before he knew what her game was.

He valiantly ignored the little voice pointing out to him that this way, Hermione would still be there until he had figured out what was going on.

* * *

Hermione's hands itched as she dusted the library; if only she could pull out one of the many esoteric volumes and investigate what, exactly, made the Malfoy library the most famous in wizarding England. She had long got over the opulence of the room, its perfect proportions and the extravagant décor, but the draw of the books remained.

It was useless; Astoria had forbidden her to use the library, and Hermione had no desire to see what punishment would be meted out if she broke any of the rules. She had a feeling that she would break them before the year was out, anyway. There was no need to do it deliberately and invite all sorts of unpleasantness on her head.

She still hadn't been able to figure out what Astoria wanted to get out of their peculiar arrangement – whatever it was, she didn't seem to be in a hurry, considering that almost a quarter of Hermione's time at the Manor had passed. The mistress of the house appeared infrequently; when she did, she let nothing slip. Slytherin taught its sons and daughters well.

Sighing, Hermione swept another shelf: only 449 to go before she was finished. The afternoon sunshine painted stripes on the Persian carpet, and dust mites were dancing in the air. A sudden noise startled her: someone had entered the room. Their steps were muffled on the carpet.

"Suitable location for you, Granger." The master of the house was present, it seemed. Hermione sighed again.

"It's not as if I get a choice in the matter, you know."

"I'd hardly set you to work in the library. It'd be like putting the fox in the henhouse."

"I'm not even allowed—never mind. I do have a work ethic, you know. How else do you think I beat you in every single class at school?"

He ignored the jibe.

"Why did you say 'You're not even allowed-'? Not even allowed what?"

"I can't remember," Hermione lied. He always treated her the same as he had when they'd been working at the Ministry, and she was afraid telling Draco that she had been banned from touching the books like a naughty child would change that. Even if it was his wife who had issued the edict.

"Do let me know if it comes back to you. Inquiring minds want to know." Draco retrieved something from the imposing desk beneath the chandelier and turned towards the door. "Do be careful on the Eastern side: some of those books are a little tetchy towards Muggle-borns."

That night, an unfamiliar volume appeared on the rickety chair she was using as a bed stand.

Intrigued, Hermione picked it up and gasped. It was a copy of _Safe Haven: Protective Spells for the Ages_, an extremely rare book she had only seen references to before. The print run had been restricted to ten copies to ensure that the protective spells didn't get too widely known to be efficient. She hadn't even known there was one in Britain.

Reverently, she turned the first page. As expected, it bore the Malfoy ex libris. It didn't take a genius to figure out whose hand was behind this; you didn't even need to be the smartest witch of your generation.

After that evening, whenever she had finished the previous one a new book would turn up, and Hermione worked her way through an astonishing array of rare and fantastic books. Suddenly, it felt like she wasn't alone anymore. Draco was speaking to her through the language of books, always dear to her heart, and it felt oddly like an embrace. Observing which book followed the other was almost like having a conversation with Draco, although neither of them acknowledged the arrangement when they met.

Hermione rather thought she was getting the hang of the Slytherin way of leaving things unspoken but not unsaid.

* * *

It was bound to occur sooner or later; it was perhaps most surprising that Hermione hadn't snapped earlier.

They were polishing the silverware, Hermione, Eddel and Miffy, in the pantry below the dining room, resembling a well-oiled production line. Hermione was the tallest, so she had been entrusted with the god-awful centrepiece Narcissa and Lucius had received from Celesta Black as a wedding present. It had more cherubs than should be allowed in polite society, and all of them were leering.

Eddel was recounting how Rowle, one of the less-polished Death Eaters in residence under Voldemort, had used it as a spitting bowl and earned a Crucio for his troubles, when Hermione suddenly couldn't take it anymore.

"Eddel had to wipe the floor _three_ times afterwards. Eddel is still-"

"I am!" Hermione burst out. "It's 'I am' and 'I had', and you know that as well as I do! You're among friends, so you can stop the poor-little-house-elf act!"

"Not in house-elf grammar it amn't," Miffy informed her sternly, with a disapproving look. "House-elf grammar is different."

"It is, is it?" Hermione asked shrewdly, unwilling to give in.

"It is, and Eddel is thanking Hermione for not talking of what she doesn't understand," Eddel said, eyeballing her. "Hermione seemed to show proper respect for house-elves, but Eddel is not sure anymore."

Hermione blushed; she had fought so hard not to believe she knew what was best for the elves better than they did themselves, and here she was imposing her opinions on them again.

"I'm sorry. Really, I am. I is, I suppose. Did the stains go away in the end?" Miffy made a sound suspiciously like a snort and Hermione could have sworn that there was a glint in Eddel's eye when she bent down to polish an especially stubborn stain on one of the cherub's feet. She must have been mistaken. Surely he couldn't have been joking with her?

No, she decided: house-elves weren't known for their sense of humour.

* * *

It took a while before the extraordinary coincidence of her current abode occurred to Hermione. She had lived in the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix during the war, and here she was, at the headquarters of the other side.

She knew already that all the current house-elves had been in residence then. They wore their service record like a military decoration, pride evident whenever it was brought up. Miffy had been there for close on a hundred years, and even Essie, the youngest, had served the Malfoys for longer than Hermione had been alive.

Even on the brink of leaving the wizarding world, Hermione couldn't stand not knowing: she had unique access to people with information about what it had been like during the reign of the Death Eaters, and she would bet her last Knut that no one else had thought to ask the house-elves for an account of their wartime experiences.

The only problem was to come up with a way of asking that wouldn't offend or bring back bad memories. Hermione didn't know for sure, but it was no wild assumption that Voldemort must have been the worst master to house-elves in the history of wizardkind.

In the end, she didn't even have to ask.

"That was during the Dark Days, that was," Miffy informed her as they were drying off and arranging crystal glasses in the glorified cupboard adjoining the dining room.

"What was?" Hermione didn't quite understand how her search for the twelfth port glass had led onto the war.

"That glass. It was in the Dark Days it was broke."

Throwing caution to the wind, Hermione barged in where angels feared to thread: "What was it like then, Miffy?" She would probably never write that book about the war, now, but she still couldn't leave it well alone; it would be like a Thestral leaving raw meat to go to waste.

"Awful horrid," Miffy shuddered, all three feet of her. "The Skull Men, they would drag in anything on their boots and never stop once to clean their feet. That snake ate Liffy, and there was nothing we could do-" She started shaking at the mention of what must have been the demise of another house-elf and Hermione thought she'd stop, but Miffy gamely continued.

"The Dark Lord, he reigned over beasts and men, and all of them came here. Yes, Hermione – all of them, even the werewolves." Miffy's knuckles were turning a whitish purple, as she turned her tiny hands into fists. "They came and taunted the Young Master at Christmas, they did. Out in the snow they pulled him, and only for his aunt was he not bitten."

Hermione remembered the smell of Fenrir Greyback's breath against her cheek, and couldn't help shuddering herself.

"And then they all sat down for their dinner, and it was all Miffy could do to keep them from bringing their own meat to the table."

"What did you do, Miffy?" Hermione didn't know what werewolves running wild would eat, and she had absolutely no desire to find out.

"I got the good port out. It was laid down by Master Septimus, so it was. None of them wanted to move after that!" Miffy let out something that sounded distinctly like a chuckle, and Hermione couldn't help smiling.

Miffy soon returned to her serious demeanour. "The Old Mistress's hair turned white that year. Never been the same again, she has."

Harry was really too lenient for his own good sometimes, Hermione reflected surlily. When the saviour of the wizarding world had been driven put to live among the Muggles, it was scant comfort that Narcissa Malfoy rarely ventured outside these days, and Lucius Malfoy reportedly spent most of his time staring into the wall after losing his wand permanently.

Hermione had seen him once, when she had tended to the flowerbeds with Welder in the gardens.

Remembering him strutting around Hogwarts and the Ministry as if he owned the place, she found it hard to reconcile her memories of the suave patrician with the withered husk of human being before her, shuffling down the garden path leaning on his cane. His hair was as long as ever, but it looked more like a spiderweb than the platinum locks she'd always considered wasted on a man.

Lucius didn't appear to notice her, or Welder – he simply continued agonisingly slowly down the path, until the slow crunching of his steps disappeared down the herbaceous border leading to the pond.

"Seldom the Old Master ventures out now," had been Weddel's only comment. He was an elf of few words on the best of days. Hermione hadn't needed to ask what had happen; the story of the older Malfoy generation retiring to make room for Draco had even made the _Daily Prophet _shortly after the wars, when the Malfoys had been struggling to find their place on the postwar world.

Hermione had always suspected than the Malfoys had struck a deal with Kingsley's Ministry to go quietly, in return for Draco being given a chance to establish himself in the brave new world. It appeared that their gamble had paid off.

* * *

Exhibit A, a Dresden figurine of a shepherdess broken in two pieces, laid before them. Astoria's expression was stern, but she couldn't hide her glee completely as she inspected Essie and Hermione. They stood before her in the pink drawing room, silent.

"Can you tell me what happened here?"

Hermione had to restrain herself from hiking her eyebrows north. It was fairly obvious to anyone with more intelligence than a teapot what had occurred. Hermione still hadn't seen a house-elf break or drop anything. If they had, they would simply have used magic to mend it, the way she'd seen the elves repair anything that was broken, up to and including the walls of Hogwarts.

"I broke it. I'm sorry," Hermione offered, her tone carefully neutral. She was trying to work out what Astoria was getting at, while suddenly fighting a blinding headache. Her head felt so heavy all of a sudden, just like it had when-

She'd almost remembered when Astoria spoke and broke her concentration.

"I don't think so. I think Essie broke it but is too afraid to say. Isn't that right, Essie?" Astoria levelled her supercilious gaze on the house-elf, and Hermione's disdain for her grew just a little bit more.

"Essie didn't—It wasn't—" Essie stuttered, but Astoria was having none of it.

"Are you saying mistress is wrong, Essie?"

"No! Essie didn't mean to—"

Hermione couldn't bear it any longer.

"Is there anything in particular you're looking to achieve here?" she asked, neutrally.

Astoria could have frozen glaciers with her tone as she replied: "I think Essie ought to be punished. What do you think, Essie – do you deserve to have your tongue stuck in the freezer for an hour?"

Something that could have been the beginnings of a tear glistened in Essie's eyes as she nodded miserably, squirming under her mistress' displeasure. Hermione got a cold lump in her stomach as she realised what Astoria's game was. It didn't matter: she was going to play anyway. Even if it hadn't been her fault to begin with, she still would have stepped in. It wasn't right-

A flash of pain derailed her thoughts and Hermione returned to the present. If only that damned headache would go away, she needed her wits about her...

"Why don't you punish me instead?" she offered, still in the same carefully neutral manner. Astoria's face lit up in a smile that wouldn't have disgraced a wolf on the hunt.

"Oh, I think that would do nicely. Run along, Essie, you don't need to punish yourself. This time."

The two humans were left alone.

Hermione widened her stance imperceptibly, trying to feel a connection to the earth through her feet – anything to get through what was coming.

"_Perurio_!" Astoria commanded, pointing her wand at Hermione. A burning sensation burrowed into Hermione's bones, speeding down her spine in a flaming path all the way out to her hands and feet. It took everything she had, every little scrap of determination, to keep herself from flinching.

Distantly, she remembered that pain is the least well-remembered sensation. Fortunately for Hermione, she had nightmares to remind her, and this wasn't a patch on Bellatrix Lestrange's Cruciatus.

Not a patch, and still she gritted her teeth until she could hear them crunching, her body vibrating with the effort not to give Astoria an inch. The other woman must have seen the little signs: the fluttering eyelids, the shaking hands and the slight swaying, but, by some miracle, Hermione held it in, and Astoria looked dissatisfied as she finally released the spell.

Hermione caught her breath a little too loudly once the burning pain had finally stopped, and it echoed in the over-decorated room. She looked Astoria in the eyes, delivering her opinion like a judge declaring a sentence before turning around to leave:

"If this is what you have become, Astoria Malfoy, then I pity you." She stuttered the words, and the gaps between them were slightly uneven as she was trying to catch her breath, but Hermione was deadly earnest.

Contempt had better work, because it was all she had.


	5. Exit, Stage Left

**I haven't said it for a while - thanks to itrsaa and Edhla for their invaluable beta work!  
**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

**Exit, Stage Left**

**-oOo-**

Being an only child hadn't bothered Hermione much, not after going to Hogwarts. Having been a spectator to her school friends' sibling skirmishes for years, she knew having brothers and sisters didn't automatically mean you'd pull together. Siblings could hurt you infinitely more efficiently than an outsider, homing in on your weak spots. Not all families were like the Weasleys.

After sending her parents off to a destination unknown, however, she desperately wished that she could have had a magical sibling – or even a Muggle one, who could have stayed with them.

Hermione was now the sole custodian of the fading memories of her childhood.

Nobody else in the world could recall what their kitchen in Sevenoaks had looked like on the day she had turned seven, when her mother had produced an entirely pink cake shaped like a book. Or the look of fond exasperation on her father's face when Hermione finally had mastered cycling on her big-girl bike, but announced that she much preferred books to cycling.

Hermione alone remembered days at the zoo visiting all the animals so none of them would feel left out; the way the sky above the beach in France looked so much bluer than in England; her first school bag, green and brown and shiny, proudly hanging on its own hook...

Sitting on her rickety bed under the threadbare blanket she had been allocated (she suspected it came from the stables, since no Malfoy would have been seen dead with a patchwork design mixing orange, puce and vomit green even when it was new), it occurred to Hermione that her parents, wherever they were, couldn't have wished for a worse daughter.

Assuming they were alive at all, of course.

Fighting against the tears pooling against her eyelids, she concentrated on breathing in and out, in and out. It had been the best decision – the only decision – she could have made (for the moment she ignored that she couldn't even be sure about what she had done). Her parents had a shot at being alive somewhere, and surely that was better than being dead?

Harry had told her so, many times. As he could approach the matter from the other side, as it were, Hermione found it easier to trust his word than her own judgement.

And now Harry was somewhere in the Muggle world, and Hermione was alone again. Sometimes, she thought things would never have come to this if only Harry had bloody well stuck it out and stayed in the wizarding world.

In retrospect, stepping away from publicity and politics after the war ended had been a fatal misjudgement.

All Harry had ever wanted was a normal life, and for a while he had seemed to get it. Hermione had helped him to come up with the strategy to be as boring as humanly possible to make the press lose interest. It had worked: the wizarding world had an embarrassingly short memory once all the 'unpleasantness' had concluded, and it soon forgot what it owed Harry Potter.

If Harry had taken a leaf out of Gilderoy Lockhart's book instead, people might have listened to him when he spoke up against the direction wizarding Britain started to head down only a few short years after Voldemort's defeat.

As it was, they dismissed him with a pat on the head and whispers about it being completely understandable, after everything the poor boy had gone through. _You know what they say about Aurors. They see a dark wizard in every __corner... _

Conveniently, most of them ignored that Harry was in fact criticising the increased importance attached to blood, pure or otherwise, rather than alleging that it was orchestrated by a new Voldemort. Introspection and facing up to one's own prejudices is never very appealing, even when advocated by the Boy-Who-Lived. Being in someone's debt is an irksome things, too; much easier to pretend it never happened.

Hermione had tried to speak up, too. Even fewer were inclined to listen to her. She was a Muggle-born, so wasn't she speaking for her own cause anyway?

When Harry announced the Potters' intention to leave, to raise their children away from the incestuous cauldron of the British wizarding world, Hermione didn't believe him at first. The boy she'd known had embraced everything magical and left the cold Muggle world behind without a backwards glance, and it seemed impossible that he'd turn around so completely. Hermione didn't want to believe that the situation was as dire as Ginny and Harry's decision implied.

As the date for their exit from the wizarding world approached and it became clear that the Potters were utterly serious, Hermione had gone to see Harry again. Alone.

They'd been friends before Hermione had even got to know Ginny. She was more like a normal friend; no matter how close they'd become since the war, Ginny hadn't been there in the tent during the darkest days. It was different with Harry: Hermione could have it out with him properly, without being told it was none of her business what he chose to do with his life. He, of all people, understood what it was like not to have a redheaded clan of your own.

* * *

Harry would not budge. Nothing she could do or say would persuade him to reconsider.

"You've always loved magic, how can you just leave?" she asked, when she'd realised that arguing at him was unlikely to be effective.

When he saw that Hermione was genuinely confused, the tension in Harry's jaw lessened a little. "It's a bit like loving electricity, isn't it?"

"Harry—"

"I'm serious. It doesn't exactly love us back." Before Hermione could cut in with a textbook definition of magic, Harry continued doggedly, evidently putting his half-formed ideas into words as he spoke. "My children would've had two sets of grandparents if we'd all been Muggles. Do you know what the murder rate is among wizards compared to the general population – even excluding the war? Ten to one."

"What's that got to do with anything? You're hardly going to kill Ginny—"

Harry ignored her. "It's because the average wizard can, with a bit of ingenuity, murder his neighbours in their sleep without anyone being the wiser. Fortunately most people won't do that, but they could. If they really wanted to."

"So what?"

"Well, imagine trying to police that."

Not this old chestnut again.

"Yes, Harry, being an Auror is a very difficult job." Hermione didn't roll her eyes, but it was close. "You've told me that before." Because achieving equal rights for beings who had been enslaved for centuries was _so_ much easier.

"What about the people who really would kill off their neighbours over an unkempt hedge?" That sounded oddly specific. "In the Muggle world, they grit their teeth and get on with it." Hermione suddenly remembered Harry's uncle Vernon; the hedge-cutting example made more sense now. "Here, we hope like hell that they're nice, upstanding people. Or that the other neighbours heard the argument, in the worst case scenario."

"Or?"

"Or you end up with someone like Voldemort, who realises that one-hundred and sixty Aurors and twenty Hit-Wizards are powerless against someone who doesn't care about the rules and can Apparate to God-knows-where in the blink of an eye."

Harry did have a point.

"You do have a point."

"When things go bad in the wizarding world, they go really bad quick," Harry continued. "I can see it happening again, and I—Hermione, I refuse to have my children grow up without parents." His voice was a little gravelly.

Hermione swallowed her impulsive rejoinder that Harry's children had any number of aunts and uncles infinitely nicer than the Dursleys; that was hardly the issue.

Try as she might, Hermione was entirely unable to change Harry's mind, no matter how many ways she tried to persuade him. Perhaps it was unfortunate that the most obstinate person Hermione had ever met had married the most intractable Weasley; once they had made up their minds, it would take the reappearance of Voldemort to make them change course.

Harry, Ginny, James and Albus were going to live in the Muggle world. The wizarding world was losing someone invaluable, and, beyond a mention in the _Daily Prophe_t, Hermione knew that its denizens hardly cared. Harry Potter was old news, and their world was the poorer for it.


	6. Of Turkeys And Truces

**Chapter 6**

**Of Turkeys And Truces**

**-oOo-**

It was Christmas Eve. Upstairs, the Malfoys had withdrawn to the pink drawing room to open their no doubt exquisite Christmas presents, exchanging what they probably believed was Christmas cheer over steaming glasses of mulled wine.

Hermione had lit a slim candle and placed it in her narrow window. The flame flickered and waned, but always returned to shine steady and true. She dearly wanted to believe that she was the same: a little battered by the winter winds, perhaps, but ultimately she too would shine.

The holidays had apparently made her whimsy, and more than a little wistful.

Last year, she had celebrated Christmas at The Burrow. The Weasley civil war had been raging, but despite the drawn-out arguments and recriminations the house had been full of warmth and love and friendship. They were fighting because they wanted to keep the family together, after all. All that the different factions disagreed upon was how to do so.

But even over Christmas dinner, Ron hadn't been able to leave it alone.

"What do Muggles eat at Christmas, Hermione?" he asked over the overflowing table; not an inch of the tablecloth was showing beneath the abundance of food Molly had prepared for them.

"Turkey, mostly." Hermione looked intently into her gravy, trying to avoid the inevitable quarrel heading her way. It wasn't like Ron to pick an argument when they were eating.

"See, no difference there. We'd fit right in, wouldn't we?" There was an edge to his tone suggesting the opposite, and privately Hermione was inclined to agree with him. "What do you think, Perce?"

Percy pushed a lonely brussels sprout around his plate, but declined to answer.

"More spuds, Ron?" Charlie asked, temporarily aligned with the other side to keep the peace.

Ron wasn't having any of it: "You had a lot to say earlier, what's different now?"

"Nothing, Ron. Nothing, except that it would be nice if we could have one meal in peace—"

Charlie's appeal went unheeded.

"I just don't see why we'd give everything up and go and live among the Muggles! Sure, it's bad now, but it'll get better. Just ask Dad. It's always turned around before, Dad – why would it be different now?"

Ron looked pleadingly at his father. The hair around his temples was greyer than when Hermione first had met him, but he was still the same Arthur, kindly and easily distracted. He answered Ron's question head on with his usual even temper, without addressing the underlying challenge.

"I'm afraid it never did get better, Ron. Not really." Arthur peered over his glasses at the profusion of redheads scattered in the kitchen, only an occasional dark or blond head breaking the pattern. "Look at us: nine years after the war, and it's already looking bleak again."

Most recently, Fleur had been let go from Gringotts. Once upon a time, when times had been different, Fleur had survived her brother-in-law's Gringotts robbery, but in the current climate, the new laws against half-breeds were too much. The goblins baulked at the heavy fines they'd have to pay to retain her and dispassionately informed Fleur that her services no longer were required.

In one way, it seemed logical that Veelas would be part of what was considered non-human creatures. It had never sat well with Hermione that their beauty gave them a free pass where others had to struggle. In all other respects, it was horrifying that the wizarding world was heading down this road again.

"More stuffing coming up!" Molly announced with forced gaiety and a meaningful look at Ron, who actually shut up for once.

After the plum pudding came another two arguments: "My grandchildren deserve better than being ruled by the bigots who caused two civil wars already" and "How would we make a living in the Muggle world, then?" respectively. Molly won the latter.

Mince pies and tea were served in sullen silence.

Ron and Hermione escaped before the second round of tea was offered. The clear, cold sky was sprinkled with stars. The crinkling of frost beneath their boots was such a relief after the stuffy air at The Burrow that they were halfway down the path to the village before they remembered that they, too, were at outs.

It was easier to be reasonable out here.

"Your mum's right, you know." Hermione started with a peace offering. "To be honest, I doubt your father could even go down to the shops and pass for a Muggle."

"How 'bout me, then?" Ron was briefly diverted by his natural competitiveness.

"Depends. I'd say you'd be okay if you were looking for something straightforward..."

"Hey, that Christmas present you just got—"

"I know Audrey bought it for you. She told me afterwards, in case you got the size wrong."

Ron was apparently finding it difficult to decide if he should be sulking over the slight on his Muggle impersonation skills or over Audrey letting on how he'd managed to purvey a perfectly ordinary Muggle raincoat, before remembering the issue at stake.

"All I'm saying is, it's not like you to give up. Or like any of us. It's stupid to run away when things aren't going your way, and I don't understand how Harry—"

Hermione cut Ron off, before he could get started on that again. Two hours yesterday morning had been quite sufficient to make his feelings know.

"Harry's got a family to think of, and that's his and Ginny's decision to make. We've got to think about us now."

Ottery St. Catchpole was almost deserted, except for an old man walking an elderly dog the years hadn't been kind to. He greeted them cheerfully, and Hermione remembered that it was Christmas.

"I'm thinking about us. Mostly, I'm thinking we'd have to be barmy to live with the Muggles. Seriously, Hermione…"

Ron did have a point, and a few years ago she would have agreed with him.

"I know, Ron. I do. It's just that everything, every bloody thing is an uphill struggle at the moment. I can't get a job so we have no money, the Ministry will never hire me again, there was a woman who _spat _at me in the street in Hogsmeade the other day, and now Fleur—"

Hermione stopped for a breath that was a little too near to a sob.

"And your dad told us about the new Muggle-protection guidelines – Stun first and ask questions later, more like it! Then there's the new Centaur legislation. No need to look at me like that, I know you haven't the first clue about it," she snapped. "Sorry, it's just that it'll undo everything I tried to achieve, and there's not a sodding thing I can do about it."

The only sound that could be heard on the village lane was the tolling of the church bells and the steady crunching of their boots.

"I wanted to make a difference, more than anything. Nobody will listen to me now, and I'm not even sure why," Hermione said quietly, as they walked past illuminated windows with Christmas trees inside.

"Well, the _Daily Prophet_ doesn't help," Ron contributed before he realised that it wasn't particularly helpful. "But Hermione – how could you give up on our whole world?"

She wasn't sure she could explain it to him.

It had taken Hermione the better part of a decade to get over her initial enchantment with magic, the rush of excitement that had swept her away as an eleven-year-old and taken her to a new life.

It was a little easier to be dispassionate about it now. The wizarding world had taken her parents, her innocence and many of her friends. Magic seemed to remove the breaks, make killers out of perfectly lovely people like Molly Weasley, and enhance all the shortcomings of the human race.

All the power that came with it was a heady rush indeed, but it carried a heavy price too. The older she got, the less certain she was it was worth it.

"I don't know," she admitted, side-stepping the real issue. "We could still do magic at home, you know. The Ministry would never find out…"

"Fair enough, but d'you really think that'd be enough? And where'd we live?"

It was a departure from the previous few weeks; they'd had screaming rows and descended to snide comments, but never actually talked about the realities of what Hermione was proposing.

Eventually, as they started to lose all feeling in their toes and then their fingers as they wove down country lanes, they hashed out a compromise. They would try for three years – enough for Hermione to go to university. She'd always wanted to go anyway, and there was nothing like the Muggle institutions of higher learning in the wizarding world. In the normal course of events – if the war hadn't happened – she might well have gone anyway.

If no other Weasleys came over to the Muggle side in that time, they would come back.

Ron and Hermione stepped in quietly through the back door at The Burrow. As they entered the kitchen, the smell of roast turkey and mince pies wrapped itself around them like a warm blanket. Molly was sitting alone at the kitchen table, a cup of tea untouched in front of her, and Hermione's heart twinged.

"Mum," Ron started and Hermione slipped away up the stairs.

She couldn't help feeling a little relieved that it wouldn't fall to her to break the news. It seemed unfair that Ron – who mainly had agreed to keep her happy, and still was certain they were coming when the three years were up –would have to bear that burden, but it was his family.

* * *

Later on, Hermione wondered if Ron ever had been fully committed to actually leaving the wizarding world, however temporarily. His actions certainly bore out that hypothesis.

With the benefit of hindsight, Hermione could see how it all had been about he. She wanted what she did to _matter_, to change things for the better, and the wizarding world seemed to be remarkably resistant to change. If something had been good enough for Wilfred Elphick and Bridget Wenlock, it was good enough for today's wizards and witches.

Especially when it came to prejudices and discrimination.

After Christmas, Ron and Hermione started saving up, and as a peace offering Ron agreed to look after their combined funds. There were the remainders of their Orders of Merlin stipends, ten years' worth of savings, the proceeds from their little house in Hogsmeade, Ron's share of the profits from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and whatever they could earn from their various jobs.

It was almost enough, and Hermione calculated that they'd have the rest by the end of the year.

Mundungus Fletcher ran a tidy sideline in commissioning new Muggle identities these days. He wasn't cheap, but he could provide anything from educational records to driving licences.

One rainy day in January, Hermione returned from work (filing order forms from the Sixties at the back of Flourish and Blotts) to find Ron sitting at the kitchen table with a curiously blank expression on his face. He didn't react to her arrival at all.

"Ron! What's the matter?" She rushed to his side, half afraid he'd had a heart attack – all those trans fats finally catching up with him. Ron had always believed healthy eating happened to other people.

"Nothing." His voice was hoarse, and it occurred to her that he might have been drinking. "Nothing, except goblins being lying, thieving bastards, and—"

Suddenly he burst into tears, big heaving sobs he'd been mortified to show normally, and Hermione wrapped her arms around him, rocking him until he had composed himself again.

She didn't get angry then, not until she found out that he'd put all their capital into a 'dead-cert' scheme for purchasing Galleons from the goblins for resale to wizards. Somehow, the lure of doubling their money had blinded Ron to the obvious flaw in the scheme, namely that Gringotts already provided the same service free of charge. From the documents Ron cobbled together, Hermione thought it looked like a classical pyramid scheme that any fool should have spotted.

She made no secret of her opinion.

"How could you have been so _stupid_? And to go behind my back—"

"Stupid – that's all I'll ever be to you! No matter what I do, it'll never be enough—"

"That's nothing to do with this, Ron! Don't try to sidetrack this into—"

"It's still true, though." His eyes were still a little pink around the edges. "It'll never be enough for you. Because no one else will ever be as smart as you think you are."

They'd had many arguments over the years, but this one was the worst. When Hermione had descended into insulting the Weasleys as well, incoherent in her rage, Ron had got his wand out and made things exponentially worse.

They hadn't spoken since. From what Hermione had heard, he'd managed to get rid of the tail eventually.

She should have remembered that Ron without Harry always brought out Ron's worst sides. Ever since their first year at Hogwarts, Harry had seemed to balance out the insecurity and jealousy Ron had a tendency to give in to otherwise. Ron was far too prone to sell himself short, and then he'd get angry with you if you agreed with him.

Hermione had never been able to make him feel like he was enough himself, not like Harry could. Perhaps that ought to have told her what their multiple breakups didn't seem to be enough to convey: that they'd be better off as friends, always would have been.

She'd like to get a chance to tell him that some time.


	7. Wiltshire Tea Party

******Chapter 7**

**Wiltshire Tea Party**

**-oOo-**

"Pour Flora some more tea, Hermione. Can't you see her cup is empty?"

Astoria was stuck in an uncomfortable no man's land when addressing Hermione. 'Granger' accorded Hermione too much status, but using 'Hermione' instead gave a curious illusion of intimacy, as if she were one of the friends Astoria was entertaining.

The outfit Hermione was wearing seemed to have been ordered straight from central casting: a black dress and a frilly white apron. Astoria was probably unaware that it would have been quite at home in a pornographic film had the hemline been a few inches shorter. Hermione's heart had been in her throat until she had tried it on and established that it was indeed decent. Astoria did have limits, then.

Ever so carefully, Hermione filled the dainty piece of Meissen china with more fragrant Assam tea. Meanwhile, Flora Carrow did her best to pretend Hermione didn't exist. Her efforts were ruined when she had to reply to Hermione's muted question of whether she wanted any milk.

Daphne Greengrass was playing with her teaspoon and hadn't contributed to the desultory conversation for a few minutes. According to Rippy, who ironed the newspapers (and occasionally his ears) every morning, Daphne was going out with Theo Nott. They were rumoured to be on the cusp of getting engaged; perhaps Daphne was busy pondering whether an absent Death Eater father was risqué enough to be able to compete with her sister.

The only one guest who looked uncomfortable was Pansy Parkinson, of all people.

She had grown into herself since Hermione had seen her last. The pug nose was still there but she was not-quite-pretty, in an expensive-looking way, and, for the first time in Hermione's experience, she didn't try to justify her place at the table by pleasing the others.

Pansy had even nodded to Hermione when she arrived. Although Hermione told herself she was reading things into Pansy's expression that weren't there, it had seemed as if a shadow of embarrassment and shame had flown across her face when Hermione had taken her coat.

"So I told Madam Malkin that if she can't be bothered to keep my measurements on file, I don't see that I owe her any loyalty—" Astoria held forth and Hermione sighed to the heavens inwardly. Astoria's battles with the unfortunate dressmaker had been raging since she had arrived at the Manor and were recounted in excruciating detail by Essie.

Hermione would die a happy woman if she never heard the words 'godet' or 'piping' ever again.

"But you can't go to Twilfitt & Tatting's, can you?" Flora asked. "Didn't you say you'd sworn an Unbreakable Vow never to do business with them again?"

"Exactly!" crowed Astoria, apparently delighted that somebody was paying attention to her struggles. "I will simply have to get a Portkey to Paris to get my robes done, there's nothing for it! Such a hassle, but if you want the best..."

Hermione glanced surreptitiously around the room. For a given definition of 'best', it looked like Astoria had achieved her goal in life. The furniture was exquisite – only someone who spent hours every week polishing it could properly appreciate the minute detail of the carvings – the fabrics sumptuous, and the adorning ornaments would have put the Muggle Fabergé to shame.

If you looked at Astoria's private sitting room from another angle, it told a quite different story.

The portraits were all Malfoy stock, apparently selected to fit in with the furniture rather than on the basis of any artistic merit or the personality of the subject. There were a few photos.

Draco did appear in the photo of their wedding, and Hermione's heart did a curious little jump whenever she noticed how uncharacteristically hopeful he looked in it. Most of the other framed photos had been taken at different galas and featured Astoria on her own. Judging by the white robes she was wearing, the largest appeared to be from the ball launching her in wizarding society.

It was another photo that had caught Hermione's interest. She couldn't seem to stop herself from glancing at whenever she got a chance.

A pudgy baby yawned and smiled intermittently, held by a slightly older child who only could be Daphne. The youngest child was wearing a violently pink confection that appeared to be the baby version of wizarding robes. Hermione had never seen the like before, but then the Potters dressed their children like Muggles.

The photo itself was nothing extraordinary; what drew her attention was the feeling that she'd seen it before somewhere. She even remembered the frame – it had been pink, too, and adorned by roses, while Astoria's version was set in a simple silver frame. It had been years ago she'd come across the other photo. She was quite sure about that.

But where would Hermione Granger have come across a baby photo of Astoria Malfoy?

The riddle kept her guessing through the tea party, and ensured Astoria's barbs flew well over her head. The ordeal had been unlikely to produce the intended result, in either case. In the general wreckage of her life, Hermione found it hard to summon the energy to care what a few Slytherins thought of her. If Professor McGonagall had been there to see what all her star pupil had achieved amounted to, it might have been different, but she'd never cared a whit about Flora Carrow in the first place.

Even as Hermione was washing up the fragile tea cups afterwards, she couldn't place the elusive photo. It definitely hadn't been at Malfoy Manor during the war – she remembered the strangest little details from that night, but the photo wasn't one of them.

It wasn't from Draco's office at the Ministry either; he'd never even mentioned Astoria back then. In those days he had seemed to spend most of his time outside the pure-blood circles he now moved in. As far as Hermione could remember from the gossip pages in the _Daily Prophet_, it wasn't until after Draco had returned to the fold that he'd started going out with Astoria.

She was a little surprised to realise that she had kept track of what Draco did after leaving the Ministry. She supposed they had been friends, then, and they still were, in an odd way.

For such a logical person, Hermione would have been hard-pressed to put her finger on how she knew, with absolute certainty, that her presence at the Manor had nothing to do with Draco. He could easily have faked his surprise at seeing her, and since Astoria had no discernible reason to want Hermione at her beck and call it would have made more sense to assume she was carrying out Draco's bidding.

Nevertheless, Hermione knew in her bones that it wasn't Draco who was behind it. Maybe her certainty stemmed from seeing how hard he had worked to make up for what he had done in the war; maybe it was a characteristic refusal to believe that anyone who could appreciate the finer points of Terry Pratchett could be so petty.

Whatever it was, she'd seen enough of the Malfoys to know that Tracey Davis had been right. Somehow, Astoria had got the upper hand on Draco and did what she pleased, while he mostly stayed out of her way.

She couldn't stop wondering what had turned the Draco she had known at the Ministry into this meek caricature of his own father. He'd had plenty of ideas, once – not about Mudbloods and the supremacy of wizards, but about research and experiments. Once she'd got to know him, Draco had seemed quietly determined to make up for having taken the Dark Mark.

It seemed like he had just given up. Maybe he just didn't care anymore.

* * *

Hermione seemed to run into Draco more often in the new year. Perhaps it was due to Miffy and Eddel trusting her to get simple tasks right, which brought her upstairs more often.

Unlike his wife, whom Hermione avoided like the plague, Draco usually had something civil to say to her. Well, maybe civil was a little too much; they carried on the war of words from their Ministry days, but he always treated her like a human being. Like an equal. Hermione would have laughed at that considering their history, but she needed the confirmation that she was an intelligent human being with a life outside the house-elves' pantry like she needed to breathe, so she didn't allow herself to question it.

Maybe Draco pitied her.

Hermione would just have to grin and bear it in that case, because she would go insane if she didn't have the occasional pithy exchange about politics or art with him to look forward to.

It was impossible to tell if he also was looking forward to intelligent conversation; that smooth look he wore all the time these days didn't betray any of what was going on underneath. Hermione remembered being in Ministry meetings with Draco, back when she could tell he was rattled from the way his knuckles would turn white from gripping his quill like a dagger, even if all one could see on his face was that utterly Malfoy expression of slight disdain.

In the intervening years he'd perfected it to indicate mild disinterest, and it seemed to have got stuck on his face. Only when they were in the middle of a particularly passionate debate about Centaur killings, for example, did it slip off.

Hermione had forgotten quite how sharp he was, and how funny.

In the beginning, simply talking to Draco had been enough. Now, somehow Hermione wasn't happy unless she had managed to wipe the mask off him to reveal the man underneath. Draco was many things when the gloves were off, but dispassionate and bland were not among them.

* * *

Astoria had steered clear of meting out punishments around Hermione after the incident with the broken ornament. Eventually, she seemed to get over her misgivings, and used any excuse offered to present Hermione with the impossible choice between taking Astoria's displeasure upon herself or let a usually completely innocent house-elf suffer.

Her contract offered her no protection from bodily harm if she volunteered.

Hermione probably wouldn't have felt any after-effects from Astoria's spells, if she hadn't already fallen victim to Bellatrix' Cruciatus. The brief session in this very house had left her prone to attacks of 'the shakes', as Ron had named them. Coupled with Astoria's less unforgivable curses, it made for an uncomfortable day after.

Hermione was unwillingly impressed with Astoria's repertoire of spells. The Slytherin common room must have been something else if this was what one of its dimmer members came out with.

Through it all, the picture of Astoria as a baby still puzzled her.

* * *

Hermione was dusting the skirting boards in the corridor linking the stables to the East Wing when the familiar sound of Draco's riding boots clicking against the parquet made her smile involuntarily.

It had been a few weeks since the last time Astoria had found fault with the way Essie had repaired her torn ball gown, so Hermione had been expecting a summons. It had come the previous night when Astoria's enchanted peacock hairpin couldn't be found. That Miffy almost instantly had located it in the wrong compartment of the Mistress' jewellery box had made no difference. As a result, Hermione's left knee was showing an uncomfortable tendency to lock, and she had woken up screaming three times last night.

Something about staring down Astoria's wand waiting for the inevitable seemed to unlock Hermione's worst memories, and she almost found the ensuing nightmares worse than the physical pain.

No matter: the sun was shining outside now and it should be at least another few weeks before Astoria could find any fault with the house-elves, and here was Draco on his way down the hall towards her.

"Granger. You'll be delighted to hear you got the Smythe case completely arseways. It was a salamander he was keeping in the back garden, not a dragon, so I'm afraid your argument is moot."

If she hadn't known better, she would have thought that Draco was just as happy as she was to have a few minutes to exchange barbs.

Unfortunately Hermione's knee wasn't very cooperative. Halfway through a complete demolition of Draco's argument in favour of Smythe she could feel it giving out, and it was only by latching on to his sleeve that she managed to stay upright.

"Sorry," she managed to squeeze out between teeth clenched so hard they hurt too.

"I am a married man, you know. Any attempts on my virtue will be regarded… What's the matter?" Draco asked intently, at odds with his previous levity, and Hermione had to remind herself that he actually was married to Astoria lest she poured the whole sorry tale into his lap.

Regardless of everything else, the risk that he mightn't sympathise with her – or even think she deserved it – ensured that Hermione wouldn't – couldn't – confide in Draco.

If he brushed her off, it would crush her. She couldn't afford the risk of souring her only sane human contact.

"Nothing. Nothing is the matter."

"Hermione, let me…" There was something eerily like concern in his eyes, and she quickly shifted her weight from his arm to the windowsill.

"There's no need for you to concern yourself—"

"Something is obviously up, or you wouldn't be looking like a hippogriff had run over you. Tell me what it is, Hermione. "

The urgency and sincerity in Draco's voice made tears well up in the corners of her eyes, and she quickly looked to the ceiling to stave them off.

"I had a bad night's sleep, that's all. Now, let me tell you where you're going wrong…"


	8. Step Into My Parlour

**Chapter 8 **

**Step Into My Parlour**

**-oOo-**

Draco had eventually learnt to recognise futility when he saw it. He made no further attempts at pressing Hermione for a more honest explanation of her poor physical state, since he couldn't make her tell him the truth.

He had, however, no compunctions about exploiting the fact that he was the master of five house-elves privy to most of what went on at the Manor. Summoning Eddel to his bedroom, the least likely place they'd be interrupted by his darling wife, Draco patiently worked his way down the house-elf ranks until he came to the petrified Essie, who finally could tell him what had befallen Hermione.

Draco was more furious than he'd ever been before. For all the money and social cachet Astoria had brought with her, this was still _his_ house. He couldn't bear to think that Hermione had come to harm under his roof.

Not again.

Draco had no illusions about his checkered past and questionable post-war record, but even he recognised that he'd changed from the petulant little boy he'd been when Bellatrix had turned her wand on Hermione in the drawing room at the Manor. Draco wasn't a particularly good man, but at least this time he was man enough to put a stop to it.

Astoria must be reigned in. Fortunately, he'd guarded the few pawns he'd been able to find instead of wasting them.

As soon as it had become clear that their marriage had irretrievably broken down, Draco had spent a lot of time trying to find means of exerting some leverage over Astoria. He should have started earlier; the Greengrasses had.

* * *

Mrs Greengrass (it was only after the wedding he had been invited to call her Eudoxia) had summoned him, and, as the obedient son-in-law he wanted to be perceived as, Draco had immediately reported to her opulently decorated boudoir. Not even under threat of grievous bodily harm would he have admitted that he found both the concept and its execution gauche beyond measure.

Like a fat spider, Eudoxia was parked on the fainting couch surrounded by bird cages and ornaments coated in far too much gold.

"Draco," she greeted him,. He bent down to kiss her powdered cheek before sitting down on the exceedingly uncomfortable couch she pointed him to. "I'm so glad you had time to see me. You must be very busy."

"Not at all, Astoria and Daphne seem to be looking after everything. All I need to do is to show up on Saturday."

"Indeed."

The conversation petered out. They were both far too smooth operators to be unnerved by silence. For several minutes, the only sound in the room was the loud ticking of an outrageously pink rococo clock.

Finally, Mrs Greengrass deigned to speak: "I asked you to pay me a visit to make sure you know what the consequences of disappointing my darling Astoria are. Not that I think you will," she hastened to add. "Just in case, you know."

"Of course I won't," Draco agreed, while his mind raced furiously. He knew Mrs Greengrass provided the steel beneath the velvet glove in the family. She had drafted the impossibly complicated pre-nuptial agreement he'd been presented with after his proposal. After lengthy negotiations it had finally been signed yesterday, so this came out of the blue. Surely she realised they couldn't change things now?

"Have a look here, dear." With a lazy flick of her ebony wand, as showy as the rest of her, Mrs Greengrass revealed a Pensieve hidden behind a frilly curtain. Draco needed no further invitation; alarmed but intrigued, he dove headlong into the silvery surface of stored memories.

When he came up again some of his shock must have been visible on his face, since Mrs Greengrass nodded approvingly.

"I knew there wouldn't be any flies on you, dear. They're all genuine memories, no tampering."

"But-" Several unwise pronouncements hovered on Draco's tongue, before he reigned himself in. "What do you want?" he asked instead.

"I want my dearest daughter to be happy. Failing that, I want her to be married to the most distinguished wizard in England and be the envy of all her friends. Knowing Astoria, if that doesn't make her happy I don't know what will."

"And the memories?" Draco's voice was hoarse.

"Insurance, if you will. As long as you stand by my daughter, they'll remain out of sight. If you ever step over the line, a little bird will twitter in the Ministry's ear. If you behave, absolutely nothing will happen."

They both knew that Draco had been spectacularly out-manoeuvred, and there was nothing more to say.

After he had Apparated home to the Manor Draco almost stormed down to his parents to demand an explanation. They had sworn to him, and to the whole wizarding world, that Lucius hadn't been involved in the Milworth Massacre. Like a fool, Draco had believed them. Until he had seen the memories of an unknown Death Eater that Mrs Greengrass had obtained, Merlin knew how.

If those memories ever fell into the hands of the Ministry his father would be sent to Azkaban to rot, and Narcissa would follow him on perjury charges for giving him a false alibi. Draco wasn't fool enough to believe that he ever would be able to lay his hands on the memories as long as Mrs Greengrass was alive; he was under her thumb now.

For a while, it hadn't mattered.

Even at the beginning, Draco wasn't particularly in love with Astoria – he found her slightly vapid, but she was beautiful and seemed like she would make a good wife. And she came with all that money, the one thing the Malfoys were short of after paying disastrous fines after the conclusion of the war. Draco had quickly come to the conclusion that Astoria would do, and her mother's interference didn't change that.

Some years later, he wasn't as cavalier about the qualities of his wife, but by then it was far too late.

Even after trying his damnedest, there were depressingly few things Draco could blackmail Astoria with. Fortunately, he'd eventually managed to unearth some indiscretions that she didn't wish to have revealed to the world at large in general, or her family in particular. It ought to be enough to stop her from using her wand on Hermione.

It had to be, because Draco had nothing else at his disposal.

This would require stealth. Ronald Weasley, for example, would never have succeeded in bringing Astoria to heel. Then again, the Weasel would never have married Astoria in the first place, opting for an infinitely preferable fiancee in Hermione. The dolt had somehow managed to mess up his good fortune, of course. Draco still hadn't managed to find out exactly what had happened, only that the nuptials had been called off. Weasley was even more fool for letting Hermione slip out of his hands. If Draco had been in his position, he would never have let her go.

Instead, he had Astoria and an uneasy alliance with the rich Greengrasses. Even Millicent Bulstrode would have been a better match.

* * *

Draco stared at his reflection.

Black robes, almost-white hair, a thin scar running down his cheekbone – it was him, all right. To the casual observer, he hadn't changed much since he was twenty-three and uncharacteristically full of hope for the future. It hadn't lasted long; of course it hadn't.

Being hopeful had been a brief interlude in his career, fitting in neatly between being a Death-Eater and assuming his place at the top of wizarding society.

He'd been an anonymous drone at the Ministry, and he'd almost been happy. It hadn't been the work. Anyone with more than five brain cells to rub together would have been able to do it, and once he had fixed the filing system, Draco had spent most of his time dossing off. It certainly hadn't been the wages; even at the Malfoys' lowest ebb, the pitiful stipend he'd drawn down wouldn't even have kept them in wand oil.

No, Draco decided as he looked back at his older self in the mirror, discovering new lines around his eyes, it had been the sense that anything was possible.

This time five years ago, he'd been thinking seriously about joining the Department of Mysteries. While working at the Ministry he had heard whispers about what went on behind that mysterious door, and decided that he quite liked the idea of going into research.

Delving into the mysteries of magic was unlikely to result in other people getting hurt, and that would suit him just fine.

That was long before the unofficial No Pure-blood Left Behind hiring policy had been implemented at the Ministry. Apparently Hestia Carrow was now working for the Department of Mysteries, the ultimate proof they took the pledge seriously. Back then, they had hired on merit only, and Draco had actually started filling out an application form.

His grandfather would have rolled in his grave at the thought of a Malfoy working, but after seeing Lucius struggle to have a cup of tea without spilling most of it with his shaking hands, Draco didn't care for ancestral approval. Maybe it was time that one of them gave political ambitions a rest for a change, to give wizarding Britain a chance to recover.

Then there were the people; most of the employees at the DRCMC didn't seem to care what Draco had done during the war, as long as he didn't hog the teapot or left the storage cupboard in a mess. He'd even achieved a sort of friendly neutrality with Potter, after magnanimously forgiving the saviour of the wizarding world for saving his life twice. They nodded to each other in the lifts, every now and then.

Then there was Granger.

She burst into the DRCMC's offices in a cloud of righteous indignation every so often, and from early on, Draco had taken it upon himself to puncture it. Despite his lack of seniority he had more experience handling Granger than the others. Some of them appeared to be in awe of the wizarding world's latest heroine.

In the beginning, it had been strangely comfortable to sling insults at her at every opportunity. Everything else had changed, but at least that was the way it used to be. Granger usually replied as good as she got, while steering clear of the obvious Death Eater territory. She always played fair.

Draco had no such scruples.

"What's wrong with you?" she threw at him one day a few months after joining the department, instead of replying to his charge of being a conceited do-gooder who'd clean up the stables after the Centaurs if they'd only let her. "Why wouldn't you try to improve things if you got the a chance?"

"Maybe I believe people should solve their own problems," Draco informed her while inspecting his nails. He definitely needed a manicure.

"Worked well for you in the war, did it?"

Draco was so shocked he let the mask drop for a moment.

"Didn't think so," Granger smirked. "So why not return the favour – pay it forward, as the Muggles say?"

In a twisted way, it made sense. Slytherins paid their debts. Draco was in so many people's debt (and so many of them were dead), that he hadn't seen a way of doing it before.

It made him notice Granger, as if he was seeing her for the first time.

Despite all prior evidence to the contrary she did possess a sense of humour, and there was something about her boundless energy that drew his eye. She was dreadfully naïve, of course, and rubbed all the important people the wrong way with her insistence on doing things her way, and her way only. Did she think she was the first person ever to want to reform the wizarding world?

Still, Hermione carried her convictions like a crown and Draco couldn't help admiring her for it. He already knew she was loyal to a fault. Few Gryffindors would have believed that loyalty was the most prized quality in Slytherin, but Draco could appreciate its value.

He found that there were many things to admire about Hermione Granger.

If he only had stopped there, no harm would have been done. The incident at the Christmas party, where he had come so close to asking her to go out with him, had been one step to far. It was galling to have been saved by a Weasley, but afterwards he could appreciate how lucky he'd been.

Draco couldn't quite understand where his temporary insanity had sprung from. The Black side, probably – most of them were as mad as hatters.

A Malfoy could have nothing do to with a Muggle-born, even one with a name as famous as Hermione Granger; temporary sainthood being conferred on the latter made no difference. Even the tentative friendship grown over Muggle books and casual insults in the Ministry lifts had probably been a mistake.

Blood was constant, but the wizarding world's gratitude was ephemeral. As her enemies gained in power and the old families started to claw back the ground they temporarily had lost, Granger disappeared from Draco's view for a long time.


	9. Lost in Transit

**Chapter 9 **

**Lost in Transit**

**-oOo-**

Having returned to his senses after the Granger episode, Draco set about in earnest to restore the Malfoy fortunes. The reprieve he'd given the wizarding world from their scheming had lasted long enough: it was time to get back in the game.

Most of his natural allies had licked their wounds from the war by now, and were eager to take back what they considered theirs.

It was made immeasurably easier by Dumbledore's failure to provide a successor for the wizarding world to rally around. Shacklebolt was competent enough as Minister for Magic, but he was a simple Auror at heart and brought about his own downfall by failing to build alliances within the Ministry. Anyone could sign decrees; it took a skilled politician to play off the various factions against each other to stay in office.

Draco's private guess was that Dumbledore hadn't fancied competition, and therefore had neglected to address the leadership question while he still could.

Anyone with more than passing acquaintance of Potter knew it wouldn't even have occurred to him to stage a power grab after winning the war. Arthur Weasley couldn't steer a broomstick, much less a Ministry, and was easily distracted with shiny Muggle toys. McGonagall was shrewd enough, but would never abandon Hogwarts. Granger excepted, the rest of the famous Order were political nincompoops, and she had chosen to dedicate her efforts elsewhere, hadn't she?

While Granger was trying to save the house-elves from themselves, the usual suspects stepped forward. As long as no one in the immediate family had been a Death Eater, no one in post-war Britain paid much attention to what prospective politicians had been doing during the war. There were few heroes, so those with less sparkling war records weren't too keen on drawing attention to their own past by calling out others.

Even Percy Weasley seemed curiously reluctant to make hay of his late conversion at the battle of Hogwarts. Draco could have told him that personal regrets was baggage he could ill afford to keep if he intended to climb the ranks at the Ministry. Weasley senior could clearly provide little guidance in that area.

Once Draco dedicated himself to repairing his tattered reputation rather than keeping the archives of the DRCMC in order, he slipped back into the familiar rhythm of wizarding society.

It was the world he had been born into, a world of debutantes and alliances and endless engagements. At any given occasion, the ongoing scheming might span an appointment to the Board of Governors at Hogwarts, a match for someone's niece, and the likely result in the next Quidditch match between the Montrose Magpies and the Tutshill Tornadoes.

Draco had little to offer except his lineage and the Manor; everything else had been taken away at the end of the war. His former classmates were the obvious way back into the fold, so he set about cultivating them again.

Pansy Parkinson took pity on him. She had found her feet after the war, in the face of public condemnation for her conduct at Hogwarts during the Final Battle. As she explained to Draco, there had only been two possible options when she was being spat at in the streets: she could either lock herself in and never go out again, or hex anyone who didn't treat her decently.

Pansy had opted for the second option, and was less anxious to please these days. She took Draco under her wings, and soon he found himself back in his father's old haunts, albeit skulking along the walls and listening rather than holding court.

Initially, Draco had envisaged having to gingerly detach himself from Pansy once he was back on his feet, but she turned out to be surprisingly good company. Fond of punctuating bubbles of self-importance, Pansy revered no one. To Draco, unaccustomed to being shunned on what he considered his home turf, her caustic tongue was a welcome distraction.

There were precious few people who seemed to be genuinely fond of him. Pansy being one of them was perhaps no surprise, but it was still more than he'd expected.

While being with Pansy wasn't exactly intellectually stimulating (since when was that something he looked for in women anyway?), it was soothing and familiar and surprisingly enjoyable. It was only when Draco overheard one of the Fawleys speculating about when Draco's engagement to Pansy would be announced that he realised quite how much time they were spending together.

The next time he woke up next to Pansy after a ball (only a few days later, which rather proved the point), he brought it up: "Heloise Fawley has two hundred Galleons riding on us being married before the end of the year."

"Really? Who's she betting against?"

"Does it matter?" Draco leaned on his elbow, looking down onto Pansy's smudged make-up from the night before and the rat's nest her elaborate hair-something had turned into. She wasn't beautiful, but she was pretty enough.

As she looked up at him with a lazy half-smile, he thought that he could well bear seeing that face every morning for the rest of his life.

"Do you want to win the bet for Heloise?" he asked, discovering that his throat suddenly was dry. It must be after drinking all that wine last night.

Pansy's dark eyes lost their carefree glint, and she suddenly looked much older.

"Don't, Draco," she said wearily.

"Don't what?" Draco asked, even though he already suspected he wouldn't like what he was about to find out.

"You know what I mean," Pansy said tiredly, all the fun having gone out of her. "It's not that I'm not fond of you." Her brown eyes were fathomless and unbearably sad, "It's only that I can do so much better for myself than a washed-up former Death Eater. It's not just about me, it's the rest of my family too—"

"Naturally," Draco drawled, trying desperately to look like that had occurred to him before. How could he have lost the plot so completely, not even considering Pansy's place in the pecking order relative to his own? He'd been thinking like a sodding Gryffindor, that was why, and he was suddenly furious with himself for his lapse of judgement. "I- I was joking, that was all. I know you hate Heloise Fawley," he scrambled together, to have something to say.

Mercifully Pansy said nothing more about it. Within a few months, she announced her engagement to Thaddeus Macmillan instead.

Draco, determined to make his way back to where he belonged, found Astoria instead. She was his perfect match: she had money and her blood was pure enough, while Draco had enough exalted ancestors for both of them. He could trace his lineage back to the Romans, which was enough to make Astoria queen of the pure-blood world despite the slight smell of new money emanating from the Greengrasses.

Astoria made an ideal Malfoy bride: cool, beautiful and collected, she looked completely in her element at the top of the dining table. That Draco couldn't imagine her in the throes of an impassioned debate about Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, or in bed with sleepy eyes all smudged, he chose to ignore. He knew how these things went: people usually got along well enough once the children came along.

Except that they didn't.

For the first year Draco and Astoria pulled together well enough, probably aided by the fact that they didn't see much of each other. She was content enjoying her new position, and Draco was busy capitalising on his newfound influence. When Astoria announced that she was expecting an heir, Draco felt like everything had fallen into place.

Astoria didn't see the point in speculating before the baby arrived, but Draco decided in secret that he would be called Scorpius. It wasn't just Draco anymore: he was a link in a long chain of Malfoys. His mistakes during the war didn't matter so much when regarded over centuries. Draco had managed to climb back to where he had come from, that was the important thing, and his son would be brought up like a proper Malfoy, bringing their legacy into the next century and beyond.

It never happened. Draco and Astoria's son never saw life outside the womb, and all the softness there once had been to Astoria seemed to shrivel up and die with him.

As Draco sat by her bed in the first light of dawn, watching her sleep, Astoria looked ravaged and vulnerable, with traces of pain still lingering around the corners of her lips. She was more beautiful than ever to him, and his heart swelled with something tender and warm – could it be love? – towards her.

Draco would do anything to make it better, anything in the world.

"Astoria—Astoria, love, it will be all right," he whispered. She stirred, letting his fingertip run down her cheek. He was taken aback by the fury in her face.

"Of course it will be," she spat. "Stop treating me like a child."

"I'm sorry," he tried, unaccustomed to making apologies, "it will of course be. We'll be fine-" He knew better than to say that they could try again.

"Yes, we will be. Will you leave me alone now?"

Draco left her bedroom, but waited outside until she had the house-elves ask him to go to his own quarters.

Even Draco, whose upbringing had tended towards the stiff upper lip approach to life's crises, realised that Astoria may be in a fragile state of mind.

He did his best to offer his support, even if he had little experience of how to go about it.

Innumerable cups of tea, many tentative efforts to mention the subject, and several meticulously planned romantic gestures later, Astoria told him plainly that he could stop mollycoddling her now. They'd given it a shot, it didn't work out, and as far as she was concerned this was the end of it. She'd no interest in trying again; she hadn't even been sure she wanted children in the first place.

Afterwards, Draco cursed himself for not trying harder to get through to her those first fragile days, before she could convince herself it didn't matter. He should have been honest-

There were many things he should have been to his wife, but he didn't realise until it was too late.

As the shell she built around herself hardened, Astoria moved further and further away from Draco until she might as well have lived on the moon. Even the little things they'd shared before – morning cups of tea, laughs over whoever had made a fool of themselves at the latest gala, taking the winged horses out on a Sunday afternoon – disappeared.

Astoria seemed to be absolutely determined to enjoy her position as the uncrowned queen of their world, and equally resolved never to show any chinks in her armour to Draco again. They didn't know each other very well, after all, and they had both been brought up not to show their weaknesses.

Draco had also come late to loss and failure, but he'd had the benefit of being shown what really mattered in the war.

He could understand how the shock of something being so utterly out of her control could rattle Astoria into being determined not to leave herself open to be hurt again. If she pretended nothing was amiss she could remain safe, and nothing would ever tear at her heart again.

He would have forgiven her that, if she hadn't turned grief into a weapon to use against him.

Every approach Draco made was rebuffed, but he kept trying until she informed him that the Pensieve memories Mrs Greengrass had obtained before their wedding would be sent to the Aurors unless he left her alone.

Most of the fight went out of him then.

For Scorpius, turning into a poor copy of his father would have been worth it. With only Draco and Astoria rattling around in the empty Manor, very little seemed worth the effort anymore.

* * *

When Hermione turned up at the Manor Draco had been jolted out of his stupor.

For the last five years, he had barely spoken to her, and he had long since put his moment of madness at the Auror Christmas party behind him. And yet, very soon the prospect of a glimpse of Hermione, or picking out the next book for her to read, or exchanging a few words with her, actually made it worth the effort to get out of bed in the morning.

Hermione reminded him of the best times of his life, when being a lowly Ministry employee had seemed to be adequate compensation for losing his birthright as a Malfoy.

Life had been fun, then.

The word seemed at odds with the grandeur of his surroundings; the silver brush set he'd inherited from his grandfather and the heavy plum-coloured curtains with the delicately embroidered wands seemed entirely incompatible with the concept. No one had fun at Malfoy Manor – the portraits of twenty generations of haughty ancestors ensured that the mere impulse would be quelled instantly.

Yet, Draco remembered having fun. Maybe there was still hope for him.

Astoria's well-modulated voice reminded him through the Floo that they were running late for the Ministry benefit. He shook out the sleeves of his dress robes so they hung just so and decided: No, there probably wasn't.

Not anymore.


	10. Finding The Key

**Chapter 10 **

**Finding The Key**

**-oOo-**

Ernie MacMillan was going bald.

It didn't suit him, and Hermione had to prevent herself from doing a double-take as she took his coat. He stammered the briefest of greetings before joining the party in the ballroom, and Hermione was left shaking out the heavy velvet cloak, wondering when Ernie had started accepting invitations from the Malfoys.

An observer would have believed the war never had happened: tonight, the pure-blood elite celebrated Daphne Greengrass' engagement to Theo Nott, and bar the odd Muggle-born made good like Sarah Fawcett and Donaghan Tremlett, the guest list could have been taken from the _Pure-Blood Dictionary_.

No Weasleys were present.

Hermione didn't know whether she should be grateful that they still remained the same they always had been, or sad that she wouldn't get to see them.

Ron may have acted like a complete idiot, but after being stuck at Malfoy Manor for months his crime seemed less heinous. She was pretty certain that Ron, whatever his feelings about leaving the wizarding world may be, wished her well. A few months under Astoria's thumb had taught Hermione the value of that. It was like walking on egg-shells, waiting for the inevitable-

"Hermione must come to the kitchen. Now!" Rippy was tugging at Hermione's sleeve, and she was recalled to the business at hand.

They had a party to water and feed, and the elves were so busy that Miffy had graciously allowed Hermione to prepare food that the guests actually would eat. Hermione didn't consider the concession as much of a privilege as the house-elf did, but it was still a welcome diversion from trying to predict Astoria's next move.

Tray after tray with dainty canapés were transported upstairs with a flick of Eddel's fingers, and Miffy kept them coming. Hermione and Essie were preparing the main meal for later, and Rippy was in charge of drinks. Welder, meanwhile, was busy in the garden marshalling the peacocks for a display later; apparently it was a Malfoy tradition.

Disaster struck just before the party was supposed to sit down to dinner.

A hundred guests were streaming into the magically extended dining room upstairs, while Miffy was staring in horror at the puddle of water on the floor in the kitchen.

"Who spilt something? Essie?" Despite her shrill tones, it was obvious to everyone that the slowly increasing pool of water wasn't due to a simple spillage.

A minute's frantic search located a leaking pipe in the larder. It was connected to the sink there, and then it disappeared into the bowels of the manor, the second basement Hermione only had ventured into to dust the wine cellar.

"Miffy not have time for this!" She was wild-eyed and her forehead had taken on an alarming dark purple tone. Her voice was so shrill it made Hermione fear for her eardrums. "Hermione fix it!"

Being a sworn enemy of most of the guests, Hermione could afford to take a rather more relaxed attitude. Admittedly, she did have soft spot for Draco, whom she had spotted skulking desultorily in the gallery upstairs earlier. He hadn't been looking forward to the evening, she knew that much.

"What do you want me to do, Miffy?" Hermione asked, with her most reasonable voice. It always put a suffering expression on Ron's face and made Harry remember he had something urgent to do elsewhere. "You know I don't have a wand—"

"Does not need wand, just fix it!"

"Oh, for God's sake," Hermione mumbled under her breath, but she abandoned the watercress garnish and went off in search of the offending pipe. Plumbing wasn't exactly her forte, with or without magic, but surely it couldn't be that complicated?

Ten minutes later, knee-deep in ice-cold water and flailing for purchase without reaching anything that wasn't as slippery and wet as the floor, Hermione had to declare defeat. There was a leak down here somewhere, but her chances of finding it without magic were slim to nonexistent, never mind fixing it.

Well aware of Miffy's likely reaction should she have the temerity of making the kitchen floor even wetter, Hermione wiped her legs dry as best as she could before going back in. There didn't seem to be much she could do about the shivering.

Fortunately, the kitchen was roasting. She still inched closer to the industrial-sized stove as she reported her lack of progress to Miffy.

The house-elf did not take it well.

"But what are we to _do_," she wailed. Before Hermione could suggest that it might work better if one of the elves, who could actually use magic, had a look downstairs, Rippy piped up.

"Get the Master!"

The suggestion seemed to find favour with Miffy and Essie, too (not that the latter had a say in the matter).

"Get the Master," Miffy repeated, and for the first time in hours she didn't look flustered to the point of self-combustion. Rippy was dispatched upstairs, and returned in the blink of an eye with Draco, who was clad in formal robes and wearing a long-suffering expression on his face.

"I didn't know you'd be here," he greeted Hermione, whose eyebrows flew heavenwards at that particular expression of thickheadedness. Where had he expected her to be – Timbuktu?

Colouring slightly, Draco turned his attention to Miffy, who was wringing her long hands. "What seems to be the matter?" he asked a little more curtly than necessary. Miffy recoiled.

"There's a burst pipe somewhere," Hermione filled in for Miffy, glancing sharply at Draco. "Your assistance appears to be required, or we might all end up drenched."

"Oh." Draco recovered himself slightly.

"Not to mention, your guests may end up without dessert."

"We couldn't have that, now could we?" He shook his head, but looked quite cheerful at the prospect. "What do you need me to do?"

* * *

The first thing Draco did was to warm the water to something more suited to the Caribbean than England on a cold night. One thing led to another, and quite soon the cellar room was waist-high in water, as impossibly blue as Hermione remembered the sea off the Emerald Coast in Sardinia.

"Oops," Hermione said without an ounce of regret as she splashed Draco's hitherto immaculate sleeve with water. The rest of his robes had been drenched at an early stage, so it hardly made any difference.

"Oops," he mimicked, sending a rather larger splash her way.

"It was an accident!" she protested. "Now, if I were to do it on purpose..."

* * *

None of them noticed Rippy. He was hidden beneath the low arches of the ceiling, watching them from the top of an ancient cupboard. The humans were getting sillier and sillier, shrieking with laughter when there was work to be done, but Rippy was quite pleased with himself.

It hadn't been very difficult to pry the casing loose from the ancient pipe supplying the kitchen with water. The Master looked much happier downstairs with Hermione than upstairs with the guests.

Yes, Rippy had definitely done the right thing. He wouldn't even have to find something sharp to poke himself in the eye with this time.

* * *

Hermione sat bolt upright in her bed, ancient springs creaking ominously to warn her against any sudden movements lest she wanted to find herself on the floor. The soft light of dawn was creeping through her window, but it was still very early. The front lawn was shrouded in a grey mist and only a single peacock was visible, its disembodied head appearing above the grey fog.

Taking stock of her surroundings helped Hermione calm her beating heart and catch her breath again. She had dreamt about the Ministry of Magic and Dementors, about frantically trying to produce a Patronus again and again to no avail.

However dismal the present might be, there were no Dementors at Malfoy Manor, and relief seeped through Hermione's body, driving out the chill. She was so used to the fleeting sensation of something vital escaping her that she almost dismissed it this time, too. It was only when she realised that the feeling came with a name that she took notice.

What in the world did Dolores Umbridge have to do with her dream and her present predicament ? There had been Dementors at the Ministry when she'd broken in with Harry and Ron... The locket... Harry had gone to Umbridge's office and—

In a blaze of clarity, Hermione realised just how much trouble she may be in.

Confirmation would have to wait until the morning, when she'd hopefully see Draco, but her theory fit all the facts.

If she was right, Astoria had good reason to hate her.

* * *

Hermione had spent the intervening hours since her epiphany tossing and turning, debating how much she could trust Draco. It was easier to dwell on how close he was to his wife than ponder the implications of her hypothesis.

When time came for her to rise, she had made up her mind. It hardly made any difference if Draco told Astoria, and she didn't think he would in any case. Having shared a house with the Malfoys for months, she still hadn't seen them exchange as much as a word. From what she gathered from the house-elves, the spouses didn't have more to do with each other than they could help.

When Draco came down the stairs from the first-floor gallery to the entrance hall where Hermione was washing the black and white marble tiles, she was ready to tackle him.

Subtlety had never been her forte, so she went straight for it.

"Would you know who your wife's godmother is, by any chance?" She'd done her research before coming here, and Umbridge appearing on Astoria's family tree would definitely have caught her attention. There was no official record of godparents, however.

Draco looked taken aback; by a tacit understanding they hardly ever mentioned Astoria despite their many conversations.

"I don't, I suppose." He looked at her, as if to measure her up, and nodded minutely before continuing on his way. Hermione tried not to grind her teeth with impatience.

After lunch, when she was polishing the floor in the breakfast room instead, Draco appeared again. The location made it quite obvious that he had sought her out, but the expression of bewilderment he put on at finding Hermione there could have won prizes.

"Apropos nothing, my dear wife's godmother happens to be one Dolores Umbridge," he informed her.

Hermione had been right, then.

Draco must have put some spells on the room to prevent them from being overheard, because he continued: "Apparently, they kept the relationship secret when Umbridge became a teacher at Hogwarts, to prevent any accusations of favouritism. During the war, we were all rather too busy with other things to notice, and afterwards… Well, you know what happened to Umbridge."

Hermione did. It was hardly surprising that Astoria Greengrass had kept quiet about having a godmother in Azkaban.

"I've been told they used to be quite close, which frankly came as a bit of a surprise—" Draco stopped himself, but Hermione was too busy wondering who his source had been to pay much attention to it.

She knew it didn't matter a whit who had told Draco; probably some Slytherin who wouldn't have talked to Hermione Granger even if it had occurred to her to ask. It was simply a way to avoid facing the implications of his revelations just yet.

Draco, astute as ever, seemed to have picked up that there was something ominous about her reaction once he had overcome his own gaffe.

"Umbridge has no love lost for you—" he started slowly, clearly amassing everything he knew about Hermione's past altercations with the former High Inquisitor in his mind.

She had never told anyone the full story. Perhaps now was the right time. It could hardly get any worse, after all.

"Do you know what happened to her in the Forbidden Forest the night of the battle in the Department of Mysteries?" Hermione asked, remembering whose side Draco had been on back then.

He must have had too, because for once he had the good grace to look repentant.

"You three went off, and—No, all I remember is that Umbridge ended up in the hospital wing afterwards. No one seemed to know why."

"For good reason," Hermione observed drily, hiding any trace of remorse. "She insulted the Centaurs and they dragged her off into the forest." She paused, then rushed on. "I set her up to do it. It was the only way I could think of to get rid of her, so we could get to the Department of Mysteries—"

Too late, she remembered that it was Draco's father she had been pitted against in the battle that night. He brushed it off, too busy considering the implications of Hermione's set-up of Umbridge.

"Granger, you didn't—" Draco seemed reluctant to vocalise it; he must have put the pieces together and remembered the implications of women being carried off by Centaurs. Naturally, Hermione had read up on Greek mythology when Firenze had become a teacher at Hogwarts the same year as Umbridge, even if she had long since dropped out of Divination by then.

"Yes. I set her up to be raped," Hermione admitted. Dressing it up wouldn't make it sound any better. "In my defence, the Centaurs wouldn't have done anything if she hadn't started to insult them, but I knew what I was leading her into."

Harry hadn't known what her half-baked plan was when they had walked off into the Forbidden Forest, nor had he realised what actually happened to Umbridge afterwards. Despite everything he had endured, there was still a sort of elemental kindness to Harry, one Hermione knew she didn't possess anymore. Maybe she never had.

If you applied the wizarding school of psychology and saw people as a collection of house traits, Draco ought to see nothing wrong with Hermione's ruse. Instead, he looked horrified, though he hid it well.

"Remind me never to cross you again," he mumbled eventually, when the silence became unbearable.

Hermione felt a rush of relief – at least he wasn't about to cast her off – and then only emptiness. There were so many things she regretted from that night, but picking Sirius over Dolores Umbridge was not one of them. In her darker moments, Hermione wondered if it wasn't just as well that she would be leaving the wizarding world, lest she turn out like Dumbledore in the end.

And now Astoria was out for revenge. Two-hundred thousand Galleons suddenly seemed far too cheap a price for her freedom.

"It's only for a year," Hermione said, as if to reassure herself that nothing too bad could happen. "Only a year, and then I'll be out of here." She had almost forgotten that Draco was there.

"Hermione—" he began. "Watch out for yourself, all right?" It sounded like something Ron could have said, and suddenly she was so homesick for the Weasleys and The Burrow and _normal_ things that she could have cried.

Hermione turned her attention back to the floor again, catching a flash of the stricken expression on Draco's face as she bent down. Whether it was due to what she had done back in fifth year or the bind she was in now, she didn't know.

-oOo-

* * *

**This interpretation of what happened to Umbridge is consistent with Greek mythology, which Rowling almost certainly would be aware of, considering that her degree was in Classics. There is a lot of interesting commentary on it online.**


	11. The Ties That Bind

**Chapter 11 **

**The Ties That Bind**

**-oOo-**

"I'll actually miss this," Hermione told Eddel, as she applied what looked like a miniature toothbrush to the patchwork pattern on the crystal goblet she was cleaning.

The pantry on the entrance floor was filled to the brim with crystal, sparkling in the sunlight streaming through the long, narrow window. It was cracked open an inch, allowing the scent of a dozen different flowers to creep in from the gardens, carried along on the spring breeze. Somewhere out there the birds were singing like today was the only day of spring. Inside, impossible arrays of reflected rainbow lit up the walls like they were in a fairy's castle.

Astoria hadn't summoned her for weeks. Despite herself, Hermione was beginning to hope she'd be able to serve the remainder of her year quietly and then slip away.

"When will Hermione do be missing to clean the crystal suite?" Eddel creaked, while flicking his own brush to remove a smidgen of dirt she'd missed. "It will still be here next week, so it will."

Hermione sighed. She wished she could actually do something right the first time, the way she used to do back in the real world. Just the once.

"Next year," she said absently, turning the goblet around to make sure no other microscopic fleck of dust had escaped her attention.

"What is it that is to happen next year? Will the family not be drinking from the good glasses anymore?" Eddel sounded slightly worried.

"I won't be here next year. My contract is up in June." Hermione was slightly surprised that he hadn't been told; surely her contribution to the running of the household wasn't so marginal that they wouldn't miss her at all? She was so aghast to find that it actually mattered to her that she almost missed what Eddel said next.

"But Hermione will be staying on," Eddel informed her, as if he was announcing a special treat.

"No, I won't, actually." Hermione said kindly, but with emphasis on the "no". Surely Eddel didn't believe that she had come to share his conviction that the noblest thing in the world was to serve the House of Malfoy? He wasn't usually that deluded, even when it came to the Family. "When I've finished the year I've agreed to stay, I'll be leaving. That's the terms of my contract."

Eddel peered up at her with wide eyes,

"That's as may be, Hermione. But the Bond says different." You could hear the capital 'B'.

"What bond?" Hermione asked, more sharply than she had intended.

"The Bond Hermione entered into with the Mistress, of course. It's just like a house-elf Bond, it is. So Hermione will be staying with us," Eddel said cheerfully and wiped the last speck of dust off the carafe he ever so carefully set down next to the goblets.

He didn't seem to be aware that Hermione's world just had imploded.

The earsplitting bang of an eighteenth century crystal goblet shattering on the flagstone floor following his announcement was probably sufficient to alert Eddel that Hermione didn't share his delight at the prospect of her remaining at the Manor indefinitely.

* * *

"What's the matter with you, Granger? You look like you've been told you're sitting your NEWTs again and only have a week to revise." Draco thought he did a decent job of masking his very real concern. Hermione looked even worse than that; her grey face and slightly wobbling stance suggested that an unexpected breeze would knock her over.

Surely Astoria couldn't have been up to her old tricks again? He had so little left to use as leverage against her.

"Thank you for pointing that out, Draco."

The use of his first name in return was additional proof, had he needed any, that something was seriously wrong. "Seriously – if a bunch of invigilators are about to descend on the Manor I think I'd be entitled to know about it."

"Why don't you just sod off?" Hermione suggested. Draco was used to being greeted with a certain amount of well-hidden enthusiasm, but today she just sounded tired and distant, like she was a thousand miles away and he was the least of her concerns.

"You know I can find out what it is," he tried.

"Can you really?" Hermione may as well have been on the other side of the country, for all the attention she paid him.

"Yes. Do I need to remind you that I'm the master of the house-elves in this house? All I need to do is to ask them."

She paled suddenly, and without thinking he grabbed her arms.

"Hermione, what's the matter?" Draco forgot to sound disinterested. "You don't need to be afraid of me—"

"I'm not afraid of you!" Hermione rushed to say with something of her usual vigour, and he relaxed a little.

"Then what is it?"

"Why don't you ask your wife?" Hermione suggested with unusual vehemence. Usually, she hardly acknowledged Astoria's existence, as if she was beneath Hermione's notice. Draco agreed with that wholeheartedly: Hermione Granger had brains and courage and a heart as wide as Scotland, and, compared to her brightness, Astoria paled into insignificance, regardless of what petty little games she chose to play.

"Well, I'm asking you." He refused to budge. Hermione drew a heaving breath, as if she was on the verge of bursting into tears. Draco had seen her being tortured, and not even then had she cried.

"Your darling wife managed to trick me into entering a Bond, like the house-elves," she spat. "I'm stuck here until she releases me. I guess we both know when that will be!"

Draco found breathing a little difficult all of a sudden.

"But—she can't! That's—that's illegal!" was all he could seem to latch onto.

"Yes, that's always been a big concern in your family," Hermione said, with some of her customary dryness. "I can't prove it. She must have got Daphne to help, because I did scan for spells that Astoria would have cast. I should have…" She closed her eyes, and the corners of her mouth twitched helplessly. "I shouldn't have assumed I'd know more magic than her. I've gone over it, over and over again, and I think I know how she did it now."

Astoria must be crowing over this in private, Draco realised; she must be waiting for the worst possible moment to break the news to Hermione to wring as much enjoyment out of it as possible.

She mightn't even intend to keep Hermione at the Manor indefinitely. Unlike most of the Death Eaters Draco had encountered in his previous career, Astoria found more enjoyment in humiliating others than their suffering. Once she had ground her heel into Hermione, she might let her go.

Mentioning this prospect would clearly be of no comfort to Hermione whatsoever at the moment.

"What did she do?" Draco asked, although he didn't have much hope that knowing would help. Daphne usually knew what she was about and rarely took risks; she was unlikely to have left any obvious loopholes, if for no other reason than basic self-preservation. An irate Hermione Granger was a force to be reckoned with, even at the present ebb in her fortunes.

Hermione explained how she had met with Astoria to sign her contract of service, and what spells she had used to make sure everything was in order. Nothing had seemed amiss, and she had signed without demur.

And now it was too late.

"I will get her to reverse it. I swear I will," Draco pledged through gritted teeth. Astoria was his responsibility, in a twisted way, and if he hadn't spent the last years of his life in a dejected haze Hermione wouldn't be in this situation. Then again, normally Hermione was much better at taking care of herself than he was.

"Don't trouble yourself – it's not your fault," Hermione told him curtly. If tears hadn't been creeping up in the corners of her eyes, Draco might have thought it was a dismissal, rather than a desperate attempt at pulling herself together.

In a dark little corner of his soul, Draco wanted Hermione to stay at the Manor for as long as possible. He wasn't going to do anything to her; all he wanted was for her to be there under the same roof, an irrepressible package of enthusiasm and stubbornness and wit. As long as her time at the Manor had been limited to a year, he'd managed to excuse his failure to find a way to dissolve her contract. Now, Draco felt ashamed of himself for not doing more, for just curbing Astoria's worst excesses while Hermione languished under her thumb.

She did have that lamentable commitment to fair play but even so, Hermione had been far more accepting of her situation than Draco would have expected. As he laboriously untangled the spells Astoria had laid on her, Hermione's uncharacteristic placidness finally made sense.

It turned out to have been an obscure bit of pure-blood magic that had been her downfall.

Through the centuries, a spell ensuring no further clauses were added to magical contracts had mutated into a secret way of adding conditions without the other party noticing. Draco would have known to check for it; Hermione had never had a magical family solicitor on retainer, so it had escaped her notice.

When Draco uncovered the conditions Daphne had added, he almost dropped his wand.

The reason Hermione hadn't yet staged a house-elf rebellion under their noses was not a lack of initiative, but Bonding magic preventing her from devising a way to free herself and others. Draco had known, in an abstract sort of way, that Bonding spells made the house-elves happy with their lot, and proud to serve their families. He'd always found it a rather neat piece of magic. Thinking of Hermione being subject to the same compulsion made him sick to his stomach.

It wasn't right, even for house-elves.

It came as a surprise to find that he had a conscience. His father would be appalled if he ever found out.

There was nothing for it: Draco had to compel Astoria to rip up the contract with Hermione. Unfortunately, he didn't have a scrap of leverage left. Not even the fact that she'd used Bonding magic on a witch, which was quite, quite illegal, was going to be anywhere near enough.

Draco found it rather ironic that, just as he decided to do the one noble thing in his life and give up Hermione, he had no way of actually achieving it.

After some some hard thinking he realised that he knew someone who could, however. With his luck, of course it had to be Ronald Weasley.


	12. Once More Unto The Breach

**Chapter 12**

**Once More Unto The Breach **

**-oOo-**

Draco's throat was dry. He wasn't used to being nervous, but then his life hadn't featured many last-ditch efforts in recent years. If he hadn't been so afraid of failure, the drumming of his heart and the rush of adrenaline would have been exhilarating. It had been a long time since he'd last been so aware of being alive.

"You wanted to speak to me?" Astoria swept into the pink drawing room. Draco had purposely chosen her part of the Manor in an attempt to reinforce her belief that she had the upper hand. She did, for all intents and purposes.

"Yes. I have a… troubling issue to discuss with you." Draco held out a piece of quite inferior parchment, covered in scrawly hand-writing. He seemed to recall Snape occasionally docking points for illegibility from its writer, and hoped Astoria would be able to make out what the letter said. Draco could hardly admit he'd dictated it.

She scanned through the contents, mumbling the occasional phrase out loud: "'I've found out'... 'Time has come to cash in'... 'You'd better agree' – it's from Ronald Weasley!"

"Yes." Draco was reluctant to say more; surely Astoria must have noticed the crucial bit in the middle.

She had: "And you owe him a life debt? Really?"

"Unfortunately, he saved my life at the Battle of Hogwarts." It still rankled to admit that he had been saved by a Gryffindor.

"Unfortunate, indeed," Astoria mumbled, reading the letter more carefully now. "He's—he's threatening you!" She didn't sound unduly alarmed, and Draco's heart sank.

"As you can see."

"What… do you think he's serious?" Astoria still appeared relatively untroubled by the prospect, and Draco had to suppress a twinge of annoyance. She could at least have the decency to pretend to be concerned.

"I believe so. He's informed me before that he—I believe the expression was 'hates my guts'. He's unlikely to have warmed to me over the last decade."

The only sound that could be heard was the ticking of the ornate timepiece on one of the side tables, crammed full of exquisite objets d'art. Astoria had always had good taste, Draco thought absently.

"And he's found out about Hermione – how?"

"I've no idea. Did your arrangement entail secrecy?" He knew very well it hadn't; Hermione would never have agreed to disappearing without a trace. It would have been a little too much like agreeing to your own abduction.

"No. I guess she must have talked. Pity..."

Draco couldn't contain himself any longer. Even if he had engineered the situation, Astoria didn't know that. Would it be too much to ask for his spouse to even acknowledge the prospect of his own imminent death?

"May I ask what you intend to do?"

Astoria turned her wide blue eyes to him. He remembered when he had been mesmerised by them. It would have been in September 2004, if he recalled correctly.

"Oh Draco, I'm sorry."

The noise in his ears threatened to engulf him, and Draco's knuckles turned white as he squeezed the delicate armrest on his chair until it squeaked in protest.

Getting Weasley to demand that Hermione's contract was torn up in return for fulfilling Draco's life debt to him had been a gamble, Draco had known that all along. While he hadn't expect to derive much enjoyment from life after Hermione's departure from the Manor, he would at least have known she'd be safe and happy somewhere—

Astoria's tinkling laugh recalled him to the present.

"You didn't really think I'd let you die? Come now, I'm not that bad, am I?"

Relief flooded him and all Draco could do was mutely shaking his head, although it was obvious none of them believed his denial. It was fortunate Astoria never had learnt Legilimency; she seemed to believe he really had been fearing for his life.

"It'll be a wrench to give up Hermione, I won't lie to you," Astoria mused. "I had such plans… But you don't want to hear about that, I'm sure."

Draco remained silent. The last thing he needed now was to reveal to Astoria that he cared about what became of Hermione, beyond regarding her as a useful trading commodity.

"And to think of all the trouble I went to... Such a shame. I never did like the Weasleys."

"You and me both, my dear," Draco drawled, trying to hide his relief.

"Well, that's that, I suppose. You must write back to him soon. Now, what do you think we ought to do about the rose garden – will it have to go, or can it be put to rights again?"

As he listened to Astoria's gardening plans, Draco was dismayed to find that his hands were sweaty. He had promised himself he'd risk one more gamble if Astoria agreed to give him a reprieve, and he would have to act very soon. It had been years in the making.

It was one of life's little ironies that he had more reason to be grateful to Astoria than ever before as he set out to try his luck.

* * *

Eventually, Draco found Hermione in the orchard. She was picking apples, a country maiden in her apron and with rosy cheeks. Only when you looked at her closely did you notice the drawn look around her eyes. Draco's heart ached for her.

He had better not tell her yet; not until Weasley had confirmed things on his side and Astoria dissolved the Binding Charms, but at least her release should be imminent.

Before then, Draco would finally put it to the test. He ought to done this years ago, but unfortunately the risk of him getting something completely arseways seemed to be perfectly correlated with how important it was to him.

Hermione noticed his approach, and Draco took heart from the way her face brightened slightly at the sight of him. Perhaps he'd be lucky twice today. Once he reached her, taking her basket with apples and setting it down on the ground, he didn't quite know what to say. It would be beyond pathetic to admit that he'd fancied her for half a decade and not done anything about it until now, but what else could he say?

"Hermione, I—"

"What's going on? You look like something's happened."

Where was the legendary Malfoy reserve when he bloody well needed it?

"Nothing of import. I just—I've got something to ask you."

"Sure you do. Well, ask away – those apples won't pick themselves, you know." Hermione crossed her arms, leaning back against the nearest tree.

"Or I've got something to tell you, rather." Even Draco knew he was just playing for time now. "Hermione, would you…"

To hell with it, he thought. Feeble heart never won fair maiden, or whatever the saying was. Casting hesitation aside, he closed the gap between them with one, outwardly confident stride.

He gathered Hermione in his arms and bent down to kiss her, only to for his lips to touch her cheek rather than her lips.

"What are you _doing_?" She wriggled in his arms and, despite being caught between him and the trunk of the apple tree, she managed to slink out of his grasp.

"Kissing you, what does it look like?" Draco belatedly realised that he ought to make a play for her heart, rather than imply that she was being wilfully obtuse. "Hermione, I…" He swallowed. This was harder than expected. "I've admired you for a long time now—"

"What about Astoria?"

"Fuck Astoria!" Astoria ruined sodding _everything_—

"Isn't that what you should be doing?"

Draco hadn't expected Hermione to be quite so crass.

"That's beside the point!"

"I rather think not!" Hermione seemed to be all fired up. "I'll be damned if I'll be your—your bit on the side!" She snatched up her apple basket from the ground with so much force that a few apples fell out.

"That's not what I meant!" he snapped. "Ever since we worked together at the Ministry I've—I've had a tender spot for you..." He trailed off towards the end, unable to scramble the right words together.

"Then that's when you should have told me, not now that you're married to another woman! Now will you kindly leave me alone, I've got apples to pick!"

"I don't want to be married to Astoria," was what came out of him then, seemingly of its own volition.

Hermione seemed to soften slightly.

"I know that. And I'm sure there's all sorts of Slytherin complications keeping you from getting a divorce, but that doesn't change things. It is what it is. I'm sorry, Draco,"

"Me too," he mumbled to his feet, unwilling to watch as Hermione set off down the nearest row of apple trees.

* * *

A day later, Hermione was still seething.

She didn't know what to make of the look in Draco's eyes when she had told him that things were the way they were. It was almost as if he'd received a fatal blow, but one that he'd been expecting all along.

It was easier to ignore it and focus on her righteous indignation instead.

The way he'd come on to her, like the master of the house stealing a kiss from the parlourmaid! This essentially being the case (except for the parlourmaid bit - Miffy still didn't trust Hermione to take proper care of the drawing rooms if she wasn't under supervision) did nothing to improve her temper.

It wasn't lost on her that Draco had made his move only a few days after finding out she was stuck there indefinitely. This, after swearing that he'd help her – was it his idea of making her enforced stay at the Manor bearable? The longer she turned it over in her mind, the more infuriating it was. Hermione stopped short of suspecting him of having planned the entire thing with Astoria, however – the irritating little voice in the back of her mind that kept telling her that she was missing something probably had that right, at least.

Draco Malfoy may be a libertine and an opportunist and a complete bastard, but he wasn't an arch-villain.

The concession only seemed to make her angrier. She was dusting the shelves in the breakfast room as if they had mortally offended her. Miffy would not have been impressed. When Hermione got to the skirting boards, she almost tore the paint off with her death grip on the dust cloth.

"Hermione!" Essie stuck her head in through the hidden door to the servant's corridor. Hermione started, feeling slightly guilty for no good reason.

"Yes?"

"Hermione must come to the hall at once!"

"Oh dear lord, what is it _now_?" she muttered surlily. "Will he try _wooing_ me this time?" Her voice could have dissolved paint. "Coming, Essie," she said out loud and stretched out her arm.

Essie Apparated them into in the entrance hall with dust lingering in Hermione's trail. She was pretty sure there was a black smudge on her nose, and she was full to the brim with a mix of annoyance and anger and despair that made her feel she could blow up any moment.

When she saw who was waiting for her she was almost afraid hallucinations had set in, on top of everything else.

* * *

"Ron!"

From his vantage point in the gallery above them, Draco couldn't detect whether Hermione was pleased to see Weasley or just surprised. He was only left wondering for a moment, before she removed all doubt by embracing Weasley.

Of course she bloody would.

"Hermione!" Weasley had the cheek to not only return her embrace, but swing her round in the air. "Listen, we'd better be quick: is there anything in your room you want to keep…"

"What's going on, Ron?" she asked sharply, suddenly all business.

"No time to explain, just trust me. Is there anything you want to take with you?"

Draco watched in disbelief as Hermione apparently disregarded whatever had happened between them and did exactly as Weasley told her. Dispatching Essie to her room to retrieve her personal effects, Weasley proceeded to set the infamous contract on fire before Hermione's increasingly bewildered eyes.

It looked just like an ordinary piece of parchment, as it dissolved into black flakes in a little pile on the floor.

This was his cue: hidden in the shadows on the upper floor, Draco cast a diagnostic charm he had found in an old copy of _Domestic Bliss – A Guide To House-Elf Ownership. _It came up clear and he stretched his head out over the railing so Weasley could see his nod.

"Good," Weasley said briskly and Hermione followed his gaze upwards, but Draco had already dropped back into the shadows again.

Hermione seemed torn between asking who Weasley was talking to and demanding to be told what else was going on; eventually she did neither, but lifted her arm wonderingly instead.

"I feel so light—"

"Fantastic," Weasley broke in. "Thanks, Effie." He took the basket with Hermione's belongings from Essie. "Let's get a move on now, we haven't got all day." He cast a harassed look around him, hopefully recalling Draco's detailed instructions.

"Ready?" Weasley stretched out his arm and Hermione, never slow on the uptake, slung her own around his waist. It looked like she fit in there perfectly, her curly brown hair mingling with Weasley's wisps of ginger, even if she only reached his chin.

"Bye, Essie!" was all Hermione had time for, before they Disapparated, leaving only the echo of the Apparition behind in the suddenly empty hall.

To Draco, it seemed appropriate to be skulking in the shadows as the only thing that was bright and good in the whole Manor disappeared out of his life.


	13. Welcome Back

**Chapter 13 **

**Welcome Back**

**-oOo-**

Hermione landed on slightly unsteady legs. It had been so long since she'd Apparated long-distance that she felt slightly nauseous. The feeling quickly disappeared in the wave of other things clamouring for her attention. The very first thing she did, even before seeing where they were, was to dive into the box with her things and pull her wand out.

Once she held it, the long-missed throbbing of magic from her heart out into her wand arm seemed to set the world on fire.

The bright sunlight illuminated her surroundings until she could see each individual straw of grass, and the sound of the birds singing in the trees grew to a joyous crescendo Beethoven could have composed. The air smelled of autumn leaves; she could have followed the trail of the scent of decomposition down to each individual leaf.

A cacophony of suppressed memories and impulses hit her just a second later.

"That bitch!" she screeched suddenly. "The evil, conniving, spiteful, lying, back-stabbing bitch!" Hermione had her wand out and her hair seemed to be standing on its ends; she was on the cusp of Apparating back to Malfoy Manor and have it out with Astoria right there and then.

Ron and Percy exchanged looks, the latter opening his mouth as if to speak only for Ron to shake his head violently.

"It must have been part of the spell all the time," Hermione told them, in a rush, only slightly more composed. "It never even occurred to me to find a way of breaking the contract myself. And the house-elves... I had so many ideas when I came there, but then there was just so much work… That must be how they're kept enslaved!"

She was interrupted by a slightly dumpy projectile barrelling into her.

"Never, ever, ever, ever do that again!" Hermione was admonished in tones muffled by Molly's head being pressed into her hair.

The next hour went by in a haze of celebrations of Hermione's freedom and reconciliations with the Weasleys.

It hadn't escaped her attention that there hadn't been an actual reconciliation as such with Ron. She always had counted on him to have best interests at heart, even when he didn't deserve it. To be fair, the debacle on the Horcrux hunt hadn't been entirely his fault; the loss of their savings had, however. Nevertheless, it seemed as if Hermione was destined to put her faith in Ron. It hadn't even occurred to her to demur when he'd asked her to trust him at the Manor.

It was probably a character flaw.

Ron had mouthed,_'Later'_ to her over his mother's head. As the massive cake Molly had baked was wheeled out in the kitchen at The Burrow, Hermione caught his eye to remind him.

They sneaked out as soon as they could, ducking into Percy's old room to escape from prying ears. Percy's old Head Boy badge hung proudly over the fireplace, its gleam only slightly diminished over the years. They sat down on his old bed, still immaculately made with a Gryffindor blanket on top.

"I know, I know – I've been a complete git and I'm sorry. Really, I am," Ron started off, and something in the expression on Hermione's face must have told him it wasn't quite sufficient, as apologies went. "OK, I was an idiot. I swear I didn't do it on purpose, whatever you think, but I acted like a troll. And I wasn't fair afterwards either, when you found out."

He certainly hadn't been, Hermione recalled; but then Ron had never taken kindly to being chastised for being stupid, and maybe she ought to have realised that pushing all his buttons would only make matters worse.

"I'm really sorry, Hermione. Would you forgive me?"

She'd fallen out of love with him months and months ago, but a truly contrite Ron shot straight for her heart just like he always had. She couldn't be bothered holding on to her grudges, not after everything that had happened.

"All right, then. I will," she conceded. "If only you could remember that if it sounds to good to be true—"

"—it is. I know. I know that."

"No, you obviously don't, but anyway. It doesn't matter right now. Will you please tell me what just happened?" Hermione had managed to restrain herself until now – they'd even made a banner saying 'Welcome back, Hermione' – but it only meant her curiosity was boiling over.

"It's a long story—" Ron began.

"Better start now, then, or you'll never finish," Hermione snapped. She'd had enough of waiting to last a lifetime. "Wait – do I still get the money from Astoria?" It had only just occurred to her. She couldn't bear having gone through all that, only to be back to where she had started.

"I was getting to that..."

Despite his apparent inability to actually start telling his story, it didn't take Ron very long to relate his tale of being approached by Draco Malfoy with a proposition to repay his life debt. Hermione held her tongue and resolved to save her questions until after Ron was done. Perhaps it would make more sense then.

"Now, this is the curious part," Ron told her as he had described the letter he'd written to Astoria and the following correspondence they had entered into to negotiate Hermione's release.

Hermione was enormously relieved to hear that she would be receiving the payment she'd agreed initially with Astoria; it made the last few months seem almost worthwhile.

Draco's role in the whole thing was still a mystery to her, however.

"Malfoy told me he'd have to be there when I destroyed the contract, to make sure it worked. But he wouldn't come down, he was hiding upstairs the whole time I was there. The git," Ron added routinely at the end; he had never believed Draco's change of heart after the war, and at this stage Hermione was almost inclined to agree with him.

"But why—" Hermione started, only to be interrupted by Ron who hadn't finished yet.

"Oh, and that was after he'd Apparated over to see me to tell me he'd leave it to me to tell you."

It took Hermione a second to untangle who had been telling what to whom.

"Tell me what?"

"What happened, of course. Or was going to happen."

"Well done, Ron – I could almost understand that."

Ron sighed and pulled a long face, looking the picture of exasperation. The effect was ruined when he stretched out a long arm to hug her shoulders.

"Malfoy made a big song and dance about how I'd be the one to tell you how you got out of that bloody contract- Hermione, what the hell were you thinking?"

"Never mind that, Ron. It's none of your business anyway," Hermione dismissed him, but privately she agreed with him. Never again would she make a bargain with a Slytherin.

"_Anyway_," Ron said, raising his eyebrows in a way that said louder than words that he wasn't buying it at all, "I think Malfoy's point was that I'd be able to tell you I'd engineered your release, so you'd be grateful enough just to fall into my arms."

That didn't sound like something Ron would say, but she could easily imagine it coming out of Draco's mouth.

"But you did," Hermione pointed out. "You used your life debt to set me free."

Ron looked at her like she had two heads.

"What life debt? It was Harry who saved his ruddy life, not me. I punched him in the nose, remember?"

She did, and suddenly it made even less sense than before.

"But—but _why_?"

"Damned if I know. Perhaps he wanted to piss Astoria off," Ron offered, and it struck Hermione that the simple explanations often were the best.

Occam's razor, her mind supplied automatically, while most of her attention was still in the orchard at Malfoy Manor. He had seemed—_but all Malfoys are master manipulators_, she reminded herself. Draco certainly had no love lost for Astoria.

As she walked down the rickety stairs at The Burrow, avoiding the wobbly step, two things were clear to Hermione.

Firstly, Draco Malfoy would never have given up the leverage ensuring her release had generated for no good reason. If he just had handed it over to Ron without the promise of as much as a favour in the future, it meant he had absolutely no interest in Hermione.

Secondly, she owed him her freedom. Ron, too, a little, but Ron was her friend and Draco…

Hermione had no idea what Draco was to her, but being in his debt was suddenly infuriating. She resolved to pay him back, whatever it would take. Preferably while getting her own back on Astoria, too; below the surface Hermione was still simmering with anger at the other woman fro tricking her.

Even though she was nominally free now, it appeared that she still was caught in the clutches of that cursed couple. They would regret it, Hermione promised herself, before she remembered that she ought to be grateful to Draco.

Paradoxically, that made her even angrier with him.


	14. Cloak and Dagger

**Chapter 14**

**Cloak And Dagger**

**-oOo-**

Hermione rolled up her copy of _The Guardian _and shoved it into her bag. She would use it for lighting the fire in her flat later, since an _Incendio _was unfortunately no longer an option. It would be very stupid to risk exposure for the sake of a simple spell.

She looked around her table, making sure she hadn't forgotten anything, and grabbed her coat and bag. It was a quiet afternoon at the student union bar, which was precisely the reason she'd come here in the first place. After years of studying in the noisy Gryffindor common room Hermione found it odd to be stuck alone in her bedroom when revising, but it was quite nice to be able to hear yourself think, too.

The bar was the perfect compromise.

It was decidedly odd to be a mature student, when she'd always been so far ahead of her contemporaries. After long and careful consideration, Hermione had chosen to study law. While she wasn't the only student who had taken the scenic route rather than coming straight from secondary school, she was surrounded by nineteen-year-olds who had just sat their A-levels.

They were rather nice, actually. Somewhere along the way Hermione had forgotten that most of her generation in the wizarding world had been irrevocably altered by the war, and not necessarily for the better. The young Muggles were quite charming in their lack of bigotry of either kind—apart from Eric Dawes, who'd told Hermione he was a member of the British National Party. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

In a way, Hermione was thankful to have her advanced age to blame any missteps on. At nineteen, thirty seemed so ancient that no one expected her to know about things like Lady Gaga or X-Men.

On her way out from the pub she waved to some of the afore-mentioned nineteen-year-olds, who apparently had decided to start the weekend early. Hermione debated whether she should remind them about the contract law essay due next Tuesday before sanity prevailed.

Besides, she had other business this afternoon.

* * *

The internet had come a something of a surprise to Hermione. Lacking daily contact with the Muggle world, its pervasiveness hadn't dawned on her until she had become a full-time student.

To someone who'd spent a significant part of her life in libraries doing research, the internet was simultaneously the best thing since Gethin Geonor found a way to juice leeches without getting one's hands slimy, and a slightly sinister invention threatening to usurp the place of real books.

Today, the pendulum was firmly on the former side: Hermione had a debt to pay, and using the World Wide Web would make it significantly easier. She'd been taking notes while Jude was showing her how to use Google last week.

No matter what else had happened to her, Hermione still believed firmly in the value of colour-coded notes. She also believed in paying her debts.

In this instance it would be difficult, since all she had to go on was a name, gleaned from Rippy, and a few throwaway comments.

Nevertheless, the way Astoria had gone out of her way to never, ever mention where her family's wealth had originated from made Hermione deeply suspicious. She knew very well that new money didn't have the same cachet as old money, among wizards and Muggles alike - snobbism seemed oddly egalitarian that way. However, she had lived in the same house as Astoria for almost a year, and there had been no reference to the family business at all despite frequent visits from her family. That seemed a little extreme.

From her research before agreeing to Astoria's proposal – albeit woefully inadequate, as it had proved later – Hermione had established that the wizarding world knew nothing whatsoever of the origins of the Greengrass fortune, other than that it came from 'investments'.

There were the Diagon Alley properties, of course, but a shrewd punt when the market was low didn't account for where the original capital had come from.

Eudoxia and Barnaby Greengrass had become very wealthy at some point in the Seventies, and not even Draco had been able to establish how. Usually tightlipped about his wife, he'd let slip once that the Greengrasses wouldn't let even him in on their secret.

While starting up the ancient computer in the library, allocated to antediluvians like Hermione who still didn't have their own laptop, she studiously ignored thinking about what it might be like for Draco to be stuck in a loveless marriage to the least charming woman she'd ever met.

It didn't excuse his behaviour in the orchard in the slightest, and she didn't feel sorry for him at all. The only reason she was doing this was to settle the score between them.

Even if Draco had arranged for the infamous contract with Astoria to be torn up, it was probably only because Hermione had turned him down, and it would be awkward to run into her all the time. He hadn't even said goodbye when she was leaving the manor, despite being so keen to see her go he'd engineered the whole damn thing.

Obviously, Draco didn't care a jot about her. Which was good, because Hermione was entirely indifferent to him too.

Entirely.

Banging down the yellowing keys so hard that breadcrumbs left by generations of students before her flew up in the air, Hermione was quite determined that she didn't give a rat's arse about Malfoy. It was just irksome to be indebted to him.

She'd just finish this, and then she'd never need to think about him again.

It was an added bonus that she hopefully would be doing Astoria a bad turn at the same time. Hermione was becoming increasingly convinced that the Greengrass fortune had Muggle origins. Mr Greengrass had once mentioned the Commercial Court to Astoria and his wife in passing, as he was leaving the Manor. None of them had noticed Hermione two floors above them in the gallery, balancing on a ladder attacking the cobwebs. It was such a Muggle term that she had remembered it.

The browser window of what Jude had told her was an outdated version of Internet Explorer had finally, finally opened. Hermione typed in "solicitor horwood london".

1,340,000 results. This might take a little longer than expected.

* * *

"Miss, you need to leave now." The cleaner was unimpressed with Hermione's lack of response to her initial prompts. Hermione suddenly realised it had been some time since the sound of the hoover had stopped, and there was no one else left in the library.

"I will, I will," she assured the cleaner, while jotting down some last references.

This linking thing was very addictive; you just kept clicking and clicking, not knowing where you'd end up eventually. She'd never realised that the world's first commercial savings bank had been founded in Scotland in 1810.

Unfortunately the internet appeared to have some limitations, so she would have to go to London in person. Careful thinking was in order before taking such a drastic step, however; the magical and Muggle world intersected in many places in the capital. It was no coincidence Hermione had chosen a university up north.

* * *

"I'll be careful, Harry." Hermione wound her scarf around her neck one more time to ward off the biting wind on the platform.

"Well, see to it that you are," he told her sternly, the glint in his eyes taking the edge off. Harry wasn't happy at all with what she was about to do, while simultaneously wishing he could go with her. It made for a slightly bewildering combination of dire warnings and stake-out tips.

"I will be," she repeated, while checking that the prepaid mobile phone she had organised for today was in her handbag. It wasn't as Helen Foster, law student at Nottingham University, she'd be going to London. Harry had helped her to come up with a disguise that would fool any wizards she might run into, and she would be extra careful to shake off anyone who could be tailing her coming back.

Planning her trip was the most fun she'd had for months.

She didn't admit it to Harry, but as the train pulled out from the train station in Stoke-on-Trent, the prospect of getting closer to the magical world than she'd been for months made her heart beat a little faster, too. Life seemed sadly flat in the Muggle world, for all that she enjoyed the chance of finally being a university student.

So many things seemed to have changed for the worse since she'd been growing up; or perhaps she was seeing her country with different eyes as an adult.

* * *

London was only a few hours away, but by the time Hermione arrived down south, the cold morning had given way to a sunny day. The quick pace of London took her by surprise – it had changed so much in ten years – but apart from a bewildering array of ticket options and people using their gadgets in the carriages, the Tube was easy to navigate.

She found her way to Lincoln's Inn without much trouble. The rest would be trickier.

* * *

"Yes, Miss Fitzpatrick. It can certainly be done today, provided that you have no complicated arrangements?"

The young solicitor left the question hanging in the air, and Hermione mutely shook her head. The woman opposite her was the very picture of professionalism, down to her exquisitely manicured fingernails. She was clearly able to draft the will that was Hermione's ostensible reason to be there in a heartbeat.

She wasn't Mr Horwood, however.

"I don't think so—that is, not if you don't count the trust, at least..." Hermione tried to sound as posh as humanly possible, and a bit dim.

It seemed to work. Apparently, not knowing the ins and outs of your trust fund wasn't that unusual among the upper classes. Hermione's status as a client was upgraded and she soon found herself in the office of Mr Maundrill-Gore, partner in the firm. His office was in the same corridor as Mr Horwood's, judging from the plaques on the doors.

"I wonder - would you mind if I... ?" She interrupted Mr Maundrill-Gore's mumbling of legal terms, looking vaguely apologetic, and he seemed to get the drift.

"Down the hall to your left, miss."

Mr Horwood's door was closed, and a few legal-looking people in suits drifted in and out of the rooms in the corridor. This wouldn't do.

Hermione found what she was looking for while walking down towards the loo. On the way back, the corridor cleared for a brief moment and she saw her chance.

Her heart beat furiously as she ducked back into the loo, the wailing of the fire alarm deafening all other sounds. It all depended on whether Mr Maundrill-Gore would come looking for her before heading for the emergency exit. Keeping the door almost closed she peered out at the gaggle of people milling in the corridor, clutching stacks of paper and shouting over the alarm.

Someone in a high-visibility vest appeared to be herding them out through a door she hadn't noticed earlier, before he came to check that all the rooms were empty.

It was time for a little magic.

* * *

Hermione was halfway to Regent's Park before she stopped to catch her breath. She had to stop herself from laughing before running out of air; the rush of doing magic after being sensible for so long combined with the excitement of finding that she had been right had her all in a tizzy. Using one of her emergency wands that couldn't be traced back to Hermione Granger had been difficult, but that only added to the fun.

Someone else had done magic in Mr Horwood's office, recently. There was a hidden filing system simply entitled 'G'.

Hermione was armed with a list of aliases from Mr Horwood's secret files. It was time to pay a visit to the Companies House in Westminster. She suspected a search for company directors would prove illuminating, and there were some things she preferred to research the old-fashioned way.

* * *

Once she realised that Meredith Wylt and Arabella Ormonde-Wilkes connected the web of companies the Greengrasses used to obfuscate the make-up of their commercial empire, Hermione started to see the pattern. The trail disappeared into the Isle of Man, where she couldn't follow it, and the Republic of Ireland, where she could. It probably didn't matter where the profits ended up. She was interested in what they actually did, and the most promising lead to that was ironically in an industrial estate in Leeds.

Heading back north, she sent off a quick text to Harry:

_On the train to Leeds, old factory there sounds promising. All gone well so far. Love, H_

She had ploughed through annual accounts for all the companies controlled by the holding companies the Greengrasses' solicitors had set up. Manufacturing had moved to the Far East in the Eighties, but in the dusty files from the Seventies dragged up by an unwilling registrar she had spotted a reference to facilities in Leeds.

* * *

Hermione adjusted her hat. It was green and quite ugly, and bore no resemblance whatsoever to the scarf she'd been wearing in London. Likewise, the trench coat she had donned on the train was quite different to the smart red woollen coat she had deemed appropriate for the wealthy Miss Fitzpatrick.

This cloak and dagger business was rather fun.

She was standing in front of a deserted industrial estate in the less salubrious parts of Leeds. It was surrounded by a fence, but something or someone had torn large holes in it so gaining entry didn't appear to pose any insurmountable difficulties. Dusk was quickly approaching, and an increasingly whiny wind was toying with debris and flapping ragged-looking posters promoting third-rate cover bands at the local nightclub.

It was now or never.

Quickly casting one last look around her to make sure no one was watching, Hermione darted across the road and crept through the biggest hole in the fence. It was an almost seamless operation, thwarted only by her hat getting stuck as she almost was in the clear on the inside.

Her heart beating uncomfortably fast, Hermione tore it loose and took one, ungainly leap into the shadows. Now what?

Making the unfamiliar wand work for her was like pulling teeth; if she hadn't missed using magic every day so much she'd probably given up halfway through. As it was, it took Hermione the better part of half an hour to establish that someone had used magic here before her. Quite a lot of magic, too. It had been a long time ago, which accounted for the difficulty in finding the traces of it, but Harry's detection spells didn't fail her.

There was definitely something fishy about the way Grimes & Dunne had introduced the disposable lighter to Britain in 1967. Using magic in Muggle artifacts was a crime in itself, but if it had been widely distributed?

Hermione's heart almost stopped as the ancient fluorescent lights in the ceiling above her flickered into life. She had enough sense to make an involved sort of movement to disguise her wand. There wasn't time for anything else before a voice behind her announced:

"I'm arresting you on suspicion of burglary—"

Bollocks.

* * *

"Yes, Aunt Margery… yes, I know it was a very stupid thing to do, but— yes, I will. Here he is, now." Hermione turned to the pale-faced policeman with the stoic expression on his face announcing to the world that there was nothing he hadn't seen or heard before. "She'd like to talk to you."

The policeman actually looked surprised for a moment, but recovered quickly. Hermione listened in on his end of the conversation, and had to salute Ginny. She did an amazing impression of a crotchety old lady. All those long afternoons with Auntie Muriel finally came in handy.

The policeman actually wiped his brow when he got off the phone.

"You're free to go, miss. Stay off other people's land, and you'll be fine."

Helen Foster now had a caution for trespassing on her record. Hermione had managed to get off the charge for burglary, aided by the fact that she wasn't exactly among the standard breaking and entering demographic. She'd managed to convince the police officer that she was a keen photographer of abandoned buildings, aided by the ancient Leica she had been carrying around for photographing records.

The caution could become problematic for her future career, and she wanted to kick herself for not being more careful. She'd better set up a forum with photos of abandoned buildings to support her story if it ever came up. Or was it a blog? Jude would know.

It certainly beat being interrogated by officials from the Improper Use of Magic Office, however.

She could have used magic to get out of the factory, but it hadn't been worth the risk of triggering a callout from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Harry had explained how oddities in the emergency services' systems got flagged to the Emergency Response Unit in the department. A suspected burglar disappearing into thin air would certainly have qualified as odd.

Hermione'd had a split second to consider using magic, and had decided against it. Perhaps all the time she'd spent around Muggles was starting to show.

* * *

The following week, Hermione brought a rather bulky brown envelope with her to post on her way to her lectures. It was addressed to the Malfoy's Muggle solicitors and contained all the proof Draco would need to show that a humungous breach of the Statute of Secrecy was at the roots of Mr and Mrs Greengrass' fortune. They had used magic to manufacture cigarette lighters that didn't need to be refilled several years before the Muggles figured out how to do it.

The current queen of the pure-bloods owed her position to illegally exporting magic to the Muggle world. If Draco couldn't obtain a divorce with that as ammunition, Hermione washed her hands of him.

Oh wait, she'd done that already.

Nevertheless, this would go some way towards settling her outstanding debts with both Malfoys, so she could finally stop thinking about them. As she slipped the envelope into the letterbox, it felt like she was cutting off her last remaining tie to the wizarding world.


	15. The End Is Just A Beginning

**Chapter 15 **

**The End Is Just A Beginning**

**-oOo-**

Draco inspected the front lawn with a frown. Nothing had changed since yesterday: it was still mysteriously free from peacock excrement and immaculately kept. House-elves really were a godsend. It was a fine patch of grass, adorning the entrance to what possibly was the finest private residence in England – although that Buckinghurst place the Muggle queen lived in reportedly was rather nice, too – and it was surrounded by miles and miles of prime land.

If anyone – Ronald Weasley, for example – ever ventured to tell Draco you couldn't buy happiness, they'd get a kick up the arse.

Right, then. There was no point in dilly-dallying – there were deals to be struck, members of the Wizengamot to corrupt, and he ought to be paying a visit to his parents today as well. When he had perused the _Daily Prophet _over his morning cup of tea, he'd noticed some dinner he'd be expected to appear at in the society pages—

A rare smile flew across Draco's face. No one would be dragging him to the Brockdale Foundation's annual fundraiser. A few weeks ago, Astoria had packed her bags and decamped to her parents' slightly less grand abode.

The divorce settlement had been generous: he was still one of the wealthiest men in England. Only yesterday, he'd been hailed the most eligible bachelor in the country by _Witch Weekly. _Blaise Zabini had sent him an owl to inform him of the honour, which begged the question: what the hell was Blaise doing reading gossip magazines in the first place? Draco was footloose and fancy-free again, for the first time since—

The only time he had ever been fancy-free had been as a lowly Ministry employee, and Draco's good mood faded quickly when he remembered how that had ended.

"Rippy!" he called curtly. The house-elf appeared and Draco directed him towards his washbasin. As he proceeded to shave himself, with the house-elf warming a hot towel to be used afterwards, Draco did his best not to wonder where Hermione was.

* * *

If he spent a little longer than necessary in certain places around the house that day, nobody appeared to notice. The new shelf with Muggle books in the library received the benefit of Draco's attention for ten whole minutes without any books being removed, but Welder just continued to trim the herbaceous border outside.

What the Master was doing wasn't his business.

* * *

It was almost as if those weeks and months at Malfoy Manor hadn't happened.

In the wistful way of emigrants who don't know if they ever will return, Hermione often talked to Harry and Ginny about the wizarding world. However, the occupants of the Manor never came up in their conversations. They had little love for Draco, and she didn't think any of the Potters even knew what Astoria looked like.

They didn't know the Malfoy house-elves either, so when a particularly handsome set of crystal tableware in the antique shop near her flat reminded Hermione of Eddel and the hours spent polishing already glistening glasses, she had no one to share it with. A little girl in her school uniform, bursting into tears after being startled by a passing lorry, bore an uncanny resemblance to Essie. And somehow, almost every new book she picked up to read when she needed a break from innominate terms and Reduction into Writing, reminded her of Draco.

It was over and done with, she admonished herself as she examined Kazuo Ishiguro's latest book in the university bookshop before putting it down again. She didn't fancy reading it, not if she couldn't discuss it with—

It was only a collection of short stories, anyway – not even a novel. She never read short stories.

Even Hermione's rage against Astoria had abated somewhat. It was difficult to reconcile it with the knowledge that Hermione had transgressed in her turn. While being Umbridge's goddaughter didn't give Astoria the right to dispense justice summarily, Hermione couldn't deny that she had reason to be angry.

If there was anything Hermione had learnt by living through a war before she was out of her teens, it was that you paid the price for what you chose to do. Merely being on the side of the angels wasn't absolution in itself.

In a twisted way, she considered them even. What had happened to Umbridge couldn't be mended – and Hermione hadn't ever lost any sleep over it (whatever that said about her moral compass or lack thereof) – but in her books, the debt had been settled now.

Despite her own sins, Hermione couldn't forgive Astoria for manipulating her sense of what was real, or attempting to keep her indefinitely at the Manor. There would be a reckoning for that if she had anything to say about it, but it would have to wait.

As she settled back into her thoroughly Muggle life as Helen Foster, it seemed like Hermione could be waiting a very long time to cross paths with Astoria Malfoy again.

* * *

There was a loud crack. Hermione fumbled around for her wand, before remembering that she didn't carry one on her person anymore. Her hand dropped and she raised her chin, to nobly face whoever it was that had found her at last—

"Rippy! What are you doing here?" She would have been less surprised to find a Crup nesting among her course books.

"Let me see if I got this correctly," she said a while later, as they'd sat down over a cup of tea made by Rippy. He had insisted. Hermione hadn't demurred; she knew very well he made much better tea than she did, so there was nothing self-sacrificing over the gesture. Her electric kettle had been an object of much admiration before they'd advanced to the subject at hand. "You're saying it's all my fault?"

"Hermione _must_ come back!" She'd forgotten how squeaky Rippy sounded when he was annoyed.

"Rippy, I couldn't even get to Malfoy Manor, even if I wanted to. The wards, remember? Anyway, that's beside the point…"

But Rippy was insistent.

When he had finished explaining, Hermione sat dumbfounded, cup of tea long forgotten in her hand. Other humans may have doubted the house-elves' insight in their humans' affairs, but Hermione knew Rippy was watching Draco with an eagle eye most of the time. It had been Rippy who had been playing with Draco in his nursery when Lucius and Narcissa had followed Voldemort to his first defeat, and the house-elf had been looking after Draco ever since.

This required careful consideration. There was something Hermione had to find out first, though.

"Rippy, why are you wearing clothes?"

* * *

Draco toyed with the lid to his inkwell. There was a minute smudge on its silver surface, and he amused himself with turning it in all possible directions, watching the little black dot through the crystal of the inkwell itself. It was probably the most fun he'd have all day.

When a very familiar voice appeared out of nowhere he started violently, dropping the lid and splattering ink all over his robes.

"You're the best advertisement I've ever seen for the idle rich. Don't let anyone who actually works for a living see you, or you'll have a revolution on your hands."

Scrambling to his feet and turning around in one ungraceful movement, Draco couldn't have kept the smile off his face for a million Galleons. It was indeed Hermione. She was dressed in something Muggle and her glorious hair was all over the place as usual, and there was no one else in the world Draco would rather have in his study right now.

A beaming Rippy in the background confirmed that this was no Polyjuiced impersonator.

"What are you doing here?" Draco said and immediately cursed himself. You'd think he'd been raised in a barn (or among Weasleys). To make amends, he pulled out a chair for her, and thankfully she sat down, apparently still pondering how to answer him.

"I guess you could say I've got a proposition for you." There was a twinkle in Hermione's eyes, and she looked happier than Draco had seen her since she'd pushed through the decree on Social Welfare for Hags.

"Well?" This time he managed to sound a little more suave, and even remembered to raise one eyebrow.

"Do you remember what you asked me in the orchard that time?" she asked gently and he winced. Usually, Draco remembered it at 4AM, cursing himself for having been so stupid and wondering if he'd ever get the chance to love someone again, before telling himself to stop whining and get on with it.

It rarely worked.

"I think we can both agree that you did a pretty desperate job of it," Hermione informed him and Draco squirmed. "It'll be better if you leave those things to me in the future."

He hadn't expected that.

"So, here it goes." She seemed to brace herself. "No matter what I do, I can't seem to stop thinking about you, and I'm pretty sure it's the same for you. What do you think, should we put an end to our mutual misery and finally admit that we fancy each other?"

"But—but _why_?" It seemed incredibly important to find out right now, before he managed to mess this up again.

"What could a woman like me want with a man like you?" Hermione guessed his question straight away; it must have been the stammer that had given him away. Malfoys weren't prone to stammering.

"Exactly," Draco agreed, his befuddlement evident in the way his jaw was hanging open a little. He snapped it closed as soon as he realised.

"Because no matter how I try, it's more fun arguing about Centaur rights with you than it is to take my clothes off with anyone else. I figured the only way of getting around that is to try more traditional activities with you, as it were." She grinned. "If we're lucky, we'll find something even better than quarrelling."

Draco suspected that the glorious mix of confusion and hope and happiness he was feeling was written rather large on his face. Hermione couldn't seem to help herself. She was laughing as she flung her arms around him, kissing him properly for the first time.

Draco caught on soon enough, but there was still a bit of wonder in his voice when he spoke: "Ditching the Muggles then, Granger?"

Surely she wouldn't have come back if she didn't mean to stay?

"I think so. I was a little too quick to give up on the wizarding world. They won't get away from me so easily. You know, I wonder if I wasn't depressed before. Even before Astoria contacted me I was just ready to give in. Me!"

Draco had to agree it seemed odd, when she put it like that.

"Well, I've figured out now that the problem isn't magic, it's people," Hermione went on. "Get the idiots out of power, and we'll be just fine. You should see what the Muggles have done: it was much better when I was growing up! Or perhaps I saw things differently then..."

Draco had no idea what she was talking about, but it seemed to mean that she was staying.

"Anyway, I've learnt quite a bit from living with the Muggles. Even if they're not half as interesting as wizards," Hermione said.

"Shacking up with me won't be boring, at least," Draco offered, now that he had a chance to get a word in.

"Who said anything about shacking up? You'll have to woo me first!" Hermione laughed, and the room seemed to fill up from within with sunlight.

"Oh, I'll will, all right," he promised. "Until you're putty in my hands!"

If there was anything Draco wanted to always remember, long after all other memories became frayed around the edges and blurry with old age, it was the face of Hermione Granger as she contemplated the idea that she'd ever be putty in his hands.

**-oO THE END Oo-**

* * *

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